The Chronos key

The galactic transit hub at Vega Port-9 thrummed like a heart made of engines and movement. Starliners glided into docking bays like silver birds. The air smelled faintly of coolant and cinnamon from the pastry bots. For most people who passed through, it was just a stop between systems. For Liran Hale, shift technician, it was life, clattering tools, scheduled maintenance, the dull company of machines that behaved better than people.

On a quiet rotation, Liran was clearing out abandoned belongings from the security bins when something unusual surfaced, an old-fashioned pocket watch. It looked absurdly antique in a world of holographs and neural clocks. Brass casing. Glass face. A single hand that ticked counter to time’s direction.

Backward.

Liran frowned. The hand made no sound against the din of the terminal, but somehow its ticking pressed inside the skull like fingers on nerves. Something engraved along the rim caught the light:

THE CHRONOS KEY

Probably a prop, Liran thought, or some steampunk tourist trinket. Still, the watch felt heavy, purposeful, like history made weight.

Curiosity tugged, and the dial clicked.

A soft chime rang out.

The entire terminal shivered.

And the world jumped backward. Not visually, no swirling lights or dramatic rewind, just a sudden, impossible fact: the chronometer on the wall now read 09:21, five minutes earlier than it had a moment ago.

Then the announcement that had already played boomed again:

“Arriving now, Vega Starliner: Horizon Wing. Please proceed for docking.”

Liran froze. This had already happened. Exactly like this. And in a few minutes, Dock 4 would overload, plasma couplings misaligned and detonating on arrival. Liran had been scheduled to fix it later that day; the error would be catastrophic before then.

Liran moved. Tools slammed into a kit. Sprinting through crowds, shouting warnings. Security bots buzzed disapprovingly as Liran vaulted the barrier and reached the couplings.

Sparks crackled, the failure beginning.

Liran killed the power relay just in time.

The Starliner landed. Smooth. Safe.

Passengers applauded, thinking it was all routine.

Liran knew better. That explosion would have happened, but now history had been massaged, folded, undone.

All because of the watch.

Word spread quickly: a technician saved the day. Supervisors offered commendations, pats on the back, vouchers for cafeteria noodles that tasted of floor polish. Liran accepted with a smile plastered over confusion.

Back in the maintenance alcove, the watch pulsed faintly, like it was breathing.

Five minutes. That was all it could grant. But five minutes was enough to prevent disaster. Enough to save lives.

Enough to tempt a person.

Just one more time, Liran whispered.

The next reset prevented a fuel leak.
The one after that, a bot malfunction.
Another saved a wandering child from slipping beneath the maglev tracks.

Five minutes here, five minutes there, Liran became the invisible custodian of fate.

People began to call it luck.
Liran called it responsibility.

But after ten uses, something strange happened.

During break, a colleague named Mara waved cheerfully.

“Liran! Drinks after shift? You still like Orion cider, right? You always order...”

She kept talking, but Liran wasn’t listening.

The name, Mara, meant nothing.

They worked together. They always had. Liran knew that from her uniform and badge. But there were no memories, no shared laughter, no past conversations. A blank space where a friendship should be.

Liran lied: “Of course I remember.”

Mara smiled, relieved.

Liran excused themself and walked away, heart pounding. The memory wasn’t gone like it had been misplaced, it was gone like it had never been formed.

A price. The watch had a price.

Every reset, five minutes returned to the world. But five minutes of Liran slipped away, five minutes of history, connection, identity.

Time isn’t free, the watch seemed to say.
It collects.

Liran tried to stop. Hid the watch in a locker. Focused on normal work.

But then came the screams.

An alarm. A boarding bridge collapsing. Passengers dangling over vacuum.

Five minutes wouldn’t be enough to fix everything, but it would be enough to position the rescue drones, to halt the failure before it happened.

Liran’s hands shook as they clicked the dial.

The chime.
The shiver.
The backward jump.

Liran acted with practiced precision, saving dozens.

When the chaos ended, the crowd cheered their nameless technician.

Nameless, because Liran no longer remembered their own neighborhood, their childhood room, the scent of their mother’s cooking. That memory had been taken, exchanged for lives.

Liran staggered to a bench.

Mara approached, hesitant. “Are you okay? You look, lost.”

The truth trembled in Liran’s throat.

“I think I am,” they whispered.

Mara sat beside them. “We’ve known each other for years. You can talk to me.”

Liran swallowed hard. “I wish I remembered knowing you.”

Mara’s eyes softened with something like pity. “Then let me reintroduce myself.”

For a while, the watch rested. Liran learned small things again, how they liked their coffee, which tools fit which ports, how to laugh at Mara’s bad jokes. A new life forming over the scar tissue of lost memory.

Then came the worst day.

A hull breach. Automatic seals failing. Hundreds at risk.

Liran reached for the watch.

Five minutes. Just five.

Click.

The world rewound.

Liran fixed the breach. Saved the crowd.

And when the dust settled, Mara stood before them, not smiling, not relieved.

She looked like someone grieving.

“Do you… know who I am?” she asked quietly.

Liran opened their mouth.

No answer came.

Not even her name rang familiar.

“I’m sorry,” Liran whispered. “I don’t know you.”

Mara nodded. Her tears shone like stars.
“You saved my life,” she said. “Every time. Let me save yours.”

Gently, she took the watch from Liran’s limp hands.

“We’ll hide it,” she murmured. “Somewhere no one can use it.”

Liran said nothing. Too many pieces were missing to form words.

Now, every morning, Liran wakes to a place that feels almost-home. They work quietly, competently, like muscle memory is a map. People greet them. Some know them. Some speak like they once meant something.

A woman named Mara visits on breaks. She brings coffee. She stays close.

Sometimes Liran feels like they should know why.

And sometimes, when the light catches the maintenance lockers just right, Liran thinks they see a glint of brass, like a watch waiting, patient as gravity.

A memory Liran doesn’t have whispers:

Five minutes can save the world.
But it can also unmake a person.

Liran turns away.

Some things aren’t worth the cost.

Not anymore.