The Timer That Counted Up

The timer above my head didn’t start wrong. It started empty. Every baby was born

screaming under a glowing red countdown—parents memorized the numbers the way previous generations memorized

birthdays. They took pictures. They cried. They learned early that love had a

visible limit. I was the only exception. Above me: 00:00:00. Doctors tapped the air like it was

a smudge on glass. Machines hummed. Specialists whispered words like anomaly and display failure.

My mother held me tighter every time the silence stretched too long. Then the numbers

began to move. Not down. Up. By the time I was five,

people noticed. Children are cruelly efficient at spotting differences. They called me “backwards.”