The Watchmaker's Doctor ✔️

I

2018, Fall Equinox

Anaya quickened to a brisk pace, amplifying the crunch of red oak leaves under her leather boots. She massaged her left arm, cursing its tendency to ache in cold weather, having never lost the sensitivity from the compound fracture she'd suffered in her twenties. Her black chemise and skinny pants were hardly suitable attire for the winds of fall. Shivering slightly, she hurried through the well-tended grounds and landscaped courtyards, taking the cobbled pathway to the entrance of St. Jude's Retirement Home.

A sudden flash of light caught her eye as she was about to go in, compelling her to glance to the right. It was the metal band of Gregory's watch that glinted in the sun as his arm extended in a wave. He was already in the garden, sitting by the pond. She trudged over to him, frustrated with herself for running late for his session.

"I'm sorry, Greg. Time got away from me, again."

Greg just smiled and carried on feeding the fish. He'd been her first patient at St. Jude's when she'd taken up the practice thirteen months ago. Each resident had a weekly visit from Anaya. With him, she'd developed a different routine—a tranquil walk through the gardens, ending at this secluded spot where they would talk, unfiltered and undisturbed.

Leaves rustled as two larks flew off a branch nearby. Anaya watched them as they dived towards the gurgling fountain set in the center of the pond, perched on the birdbath, and filled the air with an unfamiliar duet. She settled onto the lemon-yellow bench beside Greg. Although she knew it was made of cedar wood, which was resistant to weather damage and decay, through her bipolar filter, it looked faded and worn. Another metaphor for herself.

"It's all right, Ana. I have all the time in the world."

Despite her best efforts, she couldn't fully understand Greg at times. So, she expanded on her apology instead. "I'm drained, Greg. I wake up every morning in my miserable apartment and it takes every ounce of energy I can muster just to get dressed and out the door. I wish I'd get over this funk already."

"You're the one who squandered your prime, then went back to study medicine for nine years. Self-medicating is dangerous, Ana. Not to mention unethical in your profession. You may be my doctor, but you're not the right physician for yourself."

And there, he'd said it. He'd encapsulated not only her life but also her demons, all in one sentence. Anaya had bipolar II. Unlike bipolar I, the highs were less intense. But the lows... Well, that was where the term 'manic depression' came from, after all.

"How are you today?" she burst out, wanting to shake off the fresh wave of depression, and return to her duty.

"I'm fine. Better than the alternative." Greg's deep purple eyes seemed to brim with knowledge and understanding.

Looking him over long and hard, she concurred he was right, on both counts. When she'd received his medical file it had stated that he was seventy-two, but he was always so healthy and... virile. "Greg, how old are you, really?"

"One hundred and one."

"Sorry I asked."

"It's in the genes," he elaborated. "We stop aging around the fifty mark. Alexandria Augustine was my great-grandfather's grandmother."

This time she just stared, too shocked to respond to his revelation.

Of course, she'd heard of the myth—'Alexandria's Genesis' was an Internet sensation during Anaya's youth. Glowing purple eyes, shimmering pale skin—'perfect human beings', with immune systems so robust they could live past one hundred and fifty. And scientifically impossible. Yet, there Greg sat. Decked out in his wide-brimmed fishing hat, signature navy turtleneck and dark wash jeans, not looking a day past fifty and dangling his explanation like bait on a fisherman's hook.

"And I still have time left," he added.

Anaya jumped out of her seat. "What time is it?!" She'd meant to pick up the meds she needed for the rest of her appointments that afternoon.

"11:45. Time you got a watch, Doc."

"Why would I need one, when I have a phone?" Wincing, she remembered it lay dead in her bag, battery drained and useless. But something in his voice made her stop and look.

"For you," Greg said and held out his own watch. His last and most prized creation in his career as a watchmaker, he'd once told her.

"Oh, no," she protested. "I couldn't—"

"Please," he urged. "A token of our friendship."

Drawn to it, Anaya took the timepiece he offered and slipped it on. She watched, mesmerized, as it appeared to coil magnetically around her wrist.

The vibrant matte amethyst dial made the gleaming hour and minute markers seem to come alive. The long, thick hands were fragile yet ceaselessly ticking by, like life itself. Countless hours must have been invested in the bezel, meticulously hashed all the way around. The tachymeter claimed prominence as if asserting that distance traveled over time should be of paramount importance. Never had the sheer pace and inevitability of time been better captured in an object.

Her eyes refocused on the figures. Three more minutes had passed, minutes she didn't have to spare. With no further time to debate against it, she kept the watch on for the moment, and left Greg with, "We'll speak more about this soon."

Anaya moved across the grass and back to the path, hurrying to the street and toward the pharmacy on the other side. Along with several others, she stepped out onto the clear pedestrian walkway. Halfway there, the screech and skid of tires warned them all of the incoming danger.

As a dirt-encrusted white minivan swerved around the corner, the people behind her gasped, cursed, and leaped out of the way. Not Anaya. She watched the out-of-control vehicle barrel toward her in slow-motion. Each sinew of every muscle froze solid, blocking any move towards self-preservation. She remained firmly rooted, her eyes meeting the intent gaze of the crazed driver as he hurtled towards her.

Then they collided.

The minivan wrapped around a lamppost, nearly cutting itself in half.

In the fleeting moment of silence after the terror, a black sleeve fluttered. Anaya's body was contorted into such an unnatural shape, it could only mean that her spine had been severed.

Her eyes stopped on Greg's watch as its hands began to speed manically around.

Backwards.

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G.