Between Seconds

A chat-driven tale of passports, clocks, and the thin line between life and after

This story grew out of a wild Substack chat – written line by line with some brilliant writers. If you enjoy it, subscribe to their work too. That’s where the real magic is.

The man at the checkpoint looked at her passport twice.

“You’ve been declared dead,” he said.

She didn’t flinch. Just reached for the envelope in her coat.

“Then you’ll want to read this first.”

“Don’t trust everything you believe. Remember.”

She watched calmly as he silently mouthed the words slowly.

"Don't... trust... everything--"

He seemed to slump where he stood for only a moment. When he opened his eyes again, he grabbed her wrist and looked at her with deep recognition.

She smiled, saying, "That's better. How long do we have?”

“Ninety seconds,” he said, already reaching for the stamp.

He pressed the stamp hard enough that the desk shook. The sound echoed too long, as if the walls were listening.

“You’ve got ninety seconds to disappear,” he muttered, shoving the passport back into her hands.

She slid the envelope across the counter instead. His fingers hesitated, then curled around it like he already knew what was inside. The hum of the fluorescent light above them seemed to falter.

“Gate four,” he whispered.

“Run.”

She didn’t look back. The crowd moved too slowly, all luggage and chatter. Every step she took, the stamp’s echo followed, still pounding in her ears. She darted into the terminal. The announcements stuttered overhead:

“Final boarding… final boarding… final—”

Travelers froze mid-step, then continued as if nothing had happened. The air itself rippled, bending the edges of the hall. Gate Four shimmered ahead like a door that shouldn’t exist.

She slowed at Gate Four, the shimmer pulling at her vision until it broke open into something else. A chamber stretched before her - walls stacked with clocks of every size, each ticking in its own language of seconds. Some rushed ahead, some dragged like molasses, some struck midnight again and again. At the center stood a girl no older than ten. Blonde curls, eyes too familiar. Her small hand pointed at the nearest clock face - its numbers melting, reforming into her own reflection.

“You’re late,” she said.

Back at the checkpoint, he turned the envelope over in his hands, filled with dreadful knowing. He ripped it open and let the contents spill into his palm: a watch with a smooth black face, inscrutable, and a single folded page.

His obituary. Dated the previous week.

The fluorescent hum above him guttered. He dropped his face into his hands. Twenty seconds remaining.

Twenty fucking seconds left.... Just enough time to send one last message. A final confession. The secret he couldnt take with him to eternity or hell as the case was likely to be. He had the receipts... To many not to call in

She stepped closer to the girl, but every stride dragged, like the floor itself was slowing her. The clocks thundered around them - some racing forward, others snapping back - as if fighting over which moment should exist. The girl tilted her head, curls trembling with static.

“Do you even know which one is yours?” she asked, and pointed again at the melting clock-face.

Behind her, the air wavered. Shapes pressed against the shimmer of Gate Four, trying to force their way through. She felt her pulse lock into rhythm with the stamp’s echo, hammering faster, faster-

And then, all at once, every clock stopped. The silence was so total it felt like the world had been erased.

Every clock hand spun backward, whirring into a blur. Gate Four’s shimmer broke wide open, spilling light like a wound.

She stepped through -

And the world slammed shut behind her.

---

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