Leo

I only went into that dusty antique shop to escape the rain. I certainly didn't intend to buy a tarnished silver pocket watch, and I definitely didn't plan on it summoning a six-foot-tall, ridiculously handsome Victorian gentleman into my living room. Now, I have a secret roommate named Leo who thinks my microwave is powered by sorcery and speaks to me like I’m royalty. My life has become a chaotic crash course in teaching a man from 1895 how to survive the 21st century. The plan is simple: keep him hidden, figure out how the watch works, and send him back home. But with every charmingly formal compliment and every late-night conversation illuminated by the glow of my television, my heart complicates the plan. I’m supposed to be finding a way to send him back to his time, but I'm secretly terrified of the day the ticking stops. They say time heals all wounds, but they never tell you what happens when time itself gets broken. It was Tuesday, raining, and my life was as remarkably average as a lukewarm cup of coffee. I bought the silver pocket watch on a whim from a thrift store smelling of mothballs and lost memories. The glass was cracked, the silver tarnished black, and the hands were frozen at exactly midnight. Sitting on my living room floor, I took a polishing cloth to the casing. My thumb grazed the winding stem. It was stiff, resistant to my touch, but with a sharp twist, it gave way. *Tick. Tick. Tick.*