Out of Sync

"You ever have one of those days where a minute doesn't feel like one?" That's what I asked my best buddy, Glen. We were hanging out at Virto's Café one sunny afternoon, the hum of coffee grinders competing with our conversation. He looked at me like I was starting an existential crisis. But this wasn't just any kind of weariness. It was like reality itself was offbeat—it would skip, then lag, like a scratched record on repeat. "Nah, dude," Glen chuckled, dismissing my concerns as one too many cups of espresso. "You're probably just tired. Maybe lay off the late-night coding sessions, huh?" That would have been the sensible thing to do. But then I wouldn't have caught the next slip at 47th Street and Main, where my whole world blinked out and back in, leaving behind a confused businessman perpetually frozen mid-stride. I chalked it up to a glitch in the system. I mean, hey, we build systems to glitch, right? But these hiccups kept happening. Pedestrians caught in loops, the odd-looking stutter of passing buses, and the rhythmic judder of traffic lights. The alarm bells in my head sounded with each occurrence, clearer than ever when I stumbled upon the Lombard Corporation's secret experiments. All tightly wrapped beneath layers of corporate jargon and encrypted legalese that tried – but failed – to obscure one telling phrase, "Temporal Manipulation Project." A project led by none other than our beloved Bastion Harness, the tech-savvy prodigy turned entrepreneur whose charisma alone could fuel an entire plaza. Curiosity is a hell of a driver, isn't it? I could barely keep my hands steady as I clicked through reams of top-secret files. Digging deeper, I discovered video footage of test subjects meekly watching the world skew before them. And the timestamp? Skipping and freezing like my glitching bike's clock had. That night, I crashed out at Glen's place, wishing the ominous reality would just be a fever dream. But clarity's got a nasty habit of sticking around. The morning sun peeled me from sleep, every ray slicing through doubt, each memory of skipping moments replaying in my mind. "Hey, Glen?" My voice shook, opening the gateway to my unraveling scheme. "What if I told you I think I know what causes these time glitches? That Lombard... it's manipulating time and everyone doesn't even realize." Glen gaped, all traces of laid-back charm replaced by genuine concern. "Henry, I think you need a break." I should've laughed it off, enjoyed some good-natured ribbing, and gone back to pretending minutes flow perfectly. Instead, I found myself standing alone in Bastion's office clad in forced confidence, offering proof of my madness. But as unpredictable as skipping time could be, veto-wielding moguls like Bastion never catch you unprepared. "Mr. Kline, the clock ticks on because we make it," he'd said. Expression soft, yet calculations dancing behind those prying eyes. "Imagine what happens if we're careless." I expected hushed tones and looming security guards, but his candid absurdity became my lifeline. Perhaps I wasn't as disconnected from the world around me as I thought. Whatever Lombard's done, it's only exacerbated the schism within time. Time spirals out of rhythm, imposing itself upon every interaction, every quick glance, tripping me to find stagnation beneath the footsteps as society glides around. Yet beneath the surface, within convictions drawing Henry closer, lay answer and cure—my plea distilled into a single inquiry as I stood poised against invisible orchestrations. "What if we were the keepers of time?" Seeking rhythmic balance beyond manipulation— between heartbeats and ticks—the only solace lay within allies you'd never expect, finding refuge when severed second meets resolve. An odd twist for sure, but my time it was. And this truth quickly buckled beneath its weight, born anew in understanding's embrace, carving out tales rewritten like a pulse. Moments' chains fell free, measured strews knit tight. But perhaps one's spirit knew it settled peace—to thwart a path contested, vast and variably sublime. And though distraction's cohort singing went unheard, the resonance churned out emotion equally fierce and personal. A leaf cast adrift upon the water's current feeling its kinship within the wrinkled pond's rippling reach—contemplated in companionable tides.