Time is a strange thing. It drags on at inopportune times, digging in heels and yanking you back with what sometimes sounds like a sigh of impatience, it speeds ahead when all you want to do is live in the one moment you can taste, touch, feel drape over your skin like a tangible thing for as long as forever lasts, and makes you wonder at how much of it you’ve wasted. One way or another, time will always let you think that you are in control before it rips your delusions away from you and leaves you reeling.

            Despite all of time’s imperfections, it is the same for everyone; a constant ebb and flow in one direction. The order is always “once upon a time” before “happily ever after,” always prologue before epilogue, beginning before end. It is the way of things, and no one has ever challenged it.

            No one except an old clockmaker, blind since birth and grieving for the son he had lost to the war. He fashioned a new kind of clock, one born of his crippling grief and desperation for the return of a son that knew only the lid of a casket. Without sight, under only his hands, the clockmaker created a clock that defied time.

            Driven half-mad by sorrow, the blind clockmaker announced that the clock that ran backwards instead of forwards could perhaps bring all the lost sons home again, return them safe and smiling to their parents’ arms.

            The crowd that had gathered at the train station for the unveiling of the great clock was silent and uneasy, and the clockmaker left without another word. He was never seen again, but the clock remained, ticking steadily backwards.

            And this is where our story begins, with time and how it is altered, in New Orleans circa 1918, on the day remembered by all as the day the war ended. The streets teemed with partiers; hats were flung skyward with exultant cries and car horns blared from every corner. Fireworks burst in the sky with cracks and pops that were nearly drowned out by the cheering. Everyone was out of their homes, celebrating the return of the sons that had made it through the war, rejoicing the peace that was sure to settle. Only one man avoided the crowds, sprinting through the darkness as if a beast were snapping at his heels. A priest clinging to the doorframe of the man’s house called after him, but his cry was lost in the crackle of a freshly launched firework.

            Time is a strange thing, but no one knew it more than Thomas Anderson-Button.

            Nearly staggering with grief, Thomas continued his manic pace down the alleys of New Orleans, skirting the crowds that threatened to suffocate. The bundle in his arms was silent, perhaps lulled to sleep by Thomas’s rocking gait, but Thomas was repulsed, gut twisting with every breath the thing took. This creature, for he refused to call it a baby, was responsible for the death of his wife, and having it this close to him was almost more than Thomas could bear. His mind flashed back to the bedchamber – blood, so much blood ­– and he choked back a breathless sob, shuddering at the proximity of the monster swaddled in his arms.

            Feet dragging on the cobblestones, Thomas came to a halt by the riverbank, chest heaving with anguish, and stared out at the rushing water. A single toss and it would all be over. Thomas stepped closer to the edge, toes peeking out over the drop, and closed his eyes, preparing to let the bundle fall into the murky river below.

            A soft gurgle broke his concentration, and Thomas faltered as the creature stirred in his grasp. Thomas hesitantly let his eyes open and lower, and a pair of milky, unfocused eyes blinked slowly up at him. Thomas sucked in a sharp breath and looked away, heart beating too fast, blood pounding in his ears, and his resolve wavered.

            This night had already witnessed one death too many – sweet, beautiful Charlotte; Thomas couldn’t fathom that he would never hold her again – and Thomas did not consider himself a cruel man. He could not just condemn the creature to death when it had only just started to live. And what was the gain? Charlotte would have died for nothing, exchanged her life for the child only to have it drown in a riverbed at Thomas’s hands. Thomas could not do it.

            But he couldn’t even bear to look at it! He could not imagine waking each day to care for the repulsive, sickly thing that had inadvertently caused the death of his only love. He had been strong once, a firm, self-assured man, but no longer, not after watching the life drain from Charlotte’s eyes.

            Thomas slowly backed away from the riverbank, shifting the bundle in his arms. There had to be a way… anything that would free him of responsibility, rid him of the abomination without resorting to murder.

            He walked for what felt like hours, tears rolling freely down his cheeks, his mind reeling. Charlotte dead. His whole world felt like it was crumbling around him, while just streets over people still celebrated and launched fireworks into the sky.

            Just as his feet began to drag once more and he could barely stand to hold the thing any longer, Thomas passed another abandoned porch and came across a house that hummed with activity. Music and gentle laughter spilled with soft yellow light out onto the lawn, and Thomas could see the silhouettes of two people through the screen of the back porch. Swallowing hard and making up his mind once and for all, he shifted the creature to one arm and dug inside his coat for a fold of bills. Stooping to place the bundle on the porch steps, he tucked the money into the blankets and knocked sharply on the door. Then, with one last look back that was of a man broken beyond any hope of repair, Thomas hastened away into the night.

            “Noah, you know I have to be inside, one of the elders is bound to mess themselves any minute –”

            “Just a moment of your time, Miss Fabray, that’s all I’m asking,” Noah implored, hazel eyes soft as he took Quinn’s hand and tugged her gently towards the door.

            Quinn pursed her lips to hold back a smile and allowed herself to be led onto the screened-in porch, tucking a loose wave of hair behind her ear as she went. The door clicked shut behind them, muting the joyful shouts and music and giving way to the chirp of crickets in the warm night air.

“Noah, we’ve been over this, you can call me Quinn.”  

            Noah ducked his head, smiling abashedly and spinning his cap around and around in his hands. Quinn laughed quietly and took Noah’s hands in her own, stilling them. Noah shifted his hat to one hand and laced their fingers together, gazing down at her with gentle eyes.

            “You look very beautiful tonight, Quinn.” Quinn smiled and lifted her hand to run her thumb over the blush high on Noah’s cheek.

            “It’s not every day I get to dress up like this.” She shrugged.

            “Too bad,” Noah laughed, eyes flicking to her lips and back up before he leaned in to kiss her softly. Quinn’s heart fluttered in her throat and let Noah pull her closer, hands lifting to cradle his face before a sharp knock on the porch door made them both jolt.

            “Who could be calling at this hour?” Quinn muttered, a little flushed, sidestepping to push the door open.

            “Make them wait,” Noah whispered, hands encircling her waist, and she giggled slightly and slapped at his shoulder.

            “Don’t be rude, Noah – hello?” She squinted through the darkness, but no one made an appearance. She frowned and Noah’s hand found her elbow instead, tugging slightly.

            “People thinking it’s funny to play pranks,” she sighed. “Drunk out of their minds, I bet – what, Noah?” Noah’s tugging had become more insistent and Quinn turned sharply to see him staring down at the steps. Perplexed, Quinn followed his gaze and inhaled sharply, her hand flying to her throat.

            “Is that… a baby?” Noah asked blankly, eyes wide, and Quinn hurried to kneel beside the small bundle that looked, for all intents and purposes, as if it had just been left carelessly on the porch steps.

            “Who would leave a baby alone on a night like this?” Quinn demanded of no one in particular, carefully pulling back the blankets to get a good look at the infant.

            She gasped, yanking back just as Noah exclaimed, “Lord almighty!”

            The baby – if it was indeed a baby – was bald, like all newborns, but any similarities ended there. Deep wrinkles furrowed the baby’s face, carving gulleys through its forehead and pulling its eyes to a squint. Its skin was leathery, as if worn for a hundred years. If Quinn hadn’t known better, she would say that a tiny, solemn old man had been left in a blanket on her doorstep.

            Her initial shock passed, Quinn brushed the back of her hand across the baby’s wrinkled cheek and it cooed, hazy, unfocused eyes blinking open to gaze in her direction.

            “You poor thing,” Quinn murmured, debating for only an instant. The thing was so withered it was almost repulsive, but Quinn felt almost sick just imagining not taking it in.

            “Quinn, what are you doing?” Noah asked, startled, as Quinn gathered the baby in her arms and straightened up, heading for the house.

            “Well I wasn’t very well going to leave him out on the step, was I?” she said indignantly, brushing past Noah and into the din that burst from the back door.

            “Miss Quinn, Mrs. Hedford wet herself again!” Mrs. Phillips hollered from the top of the stairs and Quinn navigated through the wheelchairs and sofas on her way to her room.

            “Start her a bath, I’ll be right up!” Quinn called back, just as a few elderlies in the parlor started up a celebratory cheer, complete with piano and harmonies, and the baby in Quinn’s arms squirmed in alarm.

            “Quinn, are honestly considering keeping that thing?” Noah demanded, trailing behind her like a lost puppy.

            “It’s not a thing, Noah, it’s a baby, and if the Lord intended for me to find him, then yes, I will be keeping him.”

            Quinn shouldered through her bedroom door and hesitated, looking around for a safe place to put the baby as Mrs. Phillips yelled her name again.

            “Quinn, she won’t get in the bath without you!”

            “Lord have mercy,” Quinn huffed, spinning around and pushing the baby into Noah’s arms. “Just hold him for a minute, will you? I’ll be right back.”

            Noah shied away, but it was either drop the baby or hold onto it as Quinn bustled away, and he chose the latter, cradling it gingerly as far away from his chest as he could. The baby made a contented noise, its ugly face stretching into a yawn, and Noah shifted from foot-to-foot, anxiously awaiting Quinn’s return as the celebrations in the house continued full-swing.

            Arms aching from helping Mrs. Hedford in and out of the tub, Quinn swept her hair back from her sweaty forehead and trotted down the stairs, about to go reclaim the baby from Noah when she saw the town doctor smiling and bidding the elderlies good night.

            “Doctor Nolan!” Quinn took the last few stairs and a run, catching the doctor just as he reached the front door. A middle-aged man with kind eyes and an even kinder disposition, Dr. Nolan was a frequent visitor to the boarding house, where illness and death went hand-in-hand with the residents.

            “Hello, Quinn, is everything alright?”

            “Yes, Doctor, I’m sorry this is so ill-timed, but if you have a moment…?”

            “Of course, what is it?”

            Quinn beckoned the doctor down the hallway, to where Noah was waiting uncomfortably in her doorway. Noah greeted Dr. Nolan politely and Quinn apologized again for delaying his departure home.

            “Really, it’s no trouble,” the doctor said dismissively, smiling. “What can I do for you?”

            “It’s a bit unusual, to be honest,” Quinn said, easing the baby from Noah’s arms.

            “A lot unusual,” Noah muttered, looking immediately chagrined when Quinn shushed him.

            “He was left on the steps… I can’t even begin to guess at what’s wrong with him.”

            Dr. Nolan pulled a pair of spectacles out of his coat pocket and pushed them up the bridge of his nose, peering down at the sleeping baby.

            “Heaven above,” he murmured, tracing one of the wrinkles in the baby’s face with a light finger. “I think I’d better have a closer look.”

            They backed into Quinn’s tiny bedroom and Quinn placed the baby on her faded quilt, moving to stand beside Noah as the doctor bent to inspect the strange creature.

            After a few minutes of careful examinations, Dr. Nolan re-bundled the now-squirming baby and removed his spectacles, running a hand through his hair.

            “Well, I have an answer for you, though it’s nothing I ever thought I would be saying about a newborn baby.”

            Quinn waited anxiously, hands folded under her chin, and Dr. Nolan gave a sort of bewildered laugh and said, “He seems to be suffering from old age.”

            “I beg pardon?” Noah said, and Quinn frowned, eyes flickering to the infant. He really did look like a tiny old man…

            “His eyes are full of cataracts – he’s nearly blind. It doesn’t appear as though he can hear, his bones are brittle and his whole body is in a stage of deterioration. I’m sure you’re familiar with the symptoms, caring for the residents here – as implausible as it seems, this child is in fact suffering from the ailments of an eighty-year-old man.” Dr. Nolan concluded his diagnosis and tucked his spectacles back into his coat while Quinn struggled to wrap her brain around the concept. A quick glance at Noah confirmed that he wasn’t having much success with it, either.

            “Is he dying?” she asked softly, unable to tear her eyes away from the baby as her heart clenched a little in her chest.

            “Of old age, yes. I’ve never in my life heard of such a thing.”

            Quinn moved forward and knelt beside the bed, cupping the newborn’s bald head in her palm. “Where did you come from?” she murmured, still unable to believe that anyone would leave a child, a human child on a stranger’s doorstep. Sometimes the cruelty of the world astonished Quinn, who had been raised to love thy neighbor as herself and had carried it with her into adulthood.

            “Are you planning on keeping him, Quinn?” he questioned, watching her with a shadow of concern. She looked up at him, frowning slightly.

            “Yes.” She said, almost daring him to question her.

            Dr. Nolan shifted uncertainly, burying his broad hands into the pockets of his coat.

            “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” he asked cautiously, and Noah made a small sound of agreement. “The house is so full as it is, will you be able to care for him as well as everyone else, and afford – ?”

            “Where else is he going to go?” Quinn interjected sharply. The doctor fell silent, ducking his head slightly in shame. “You said he’s dying, yes?” Dr. Nolan nodded. “Then he’ll have a home here until he does.”

            Quinn carried the baby into the parlor, where the end-of-the-war celebrations had quieted slightly, punctuated by yawns and complaints of aching old bones.

            “Listen up, please!” Quinn called, catching the attention of most of the elderlies. “Mr. Richards, that piano isn’t going to last much longer if you keep banging on it like that!” There was a chorus of laughter in the sudden quiet and Mr. Richards grinned sheepishly and removed his gnarled hands from the ivory, shifting to face Quinn.

            “Thank you. Now, we’ve got a visitor, and he’ll be staying for as long as the Lord allows him to live. He’ll be known as…” Quinn hesitated for a moment, gazing down at the wrinkled, unfortunate face. “Blaine,” she continued, smiling a little. “His name is Blaine, and he’s very sick, so you’ll all treat him well, alright?”

            Noah leaned against the far wall, still looking uncertain, but Quinn knew Blaine would have him swayed before the night ended. Noah always did have a soft heart.

            The elderlies fussed over Blaine, passing him around and commenting on his ancient appearance, and Blaine gurgled at each new face, so similar to his despite the separating decades.      

            The night was finally quiet, and Quinn rested on her stomach, watching Blaine sleep in the cradle she’d fashioned out of one of her bureau drawers. His face was relaxed, loose wrinkles spelling out contentment. Quinn smiled fondly down at him; just a few hours, and he already had her heart clutched in his clawed little hand.

            There was a knock on the door and Noah poked his head in, glancing down at Blaine.

            “You’re really set on this, aren’t you?” he asked softly, face illuminated by the moonlight filtering through Quinn’s window.

            Quinn nodded, holding Noah’s gaze. “I am.”

            Noah nodded, smiling slightly. “That’s good. Well, I just wanted to say goodnight and –”

            “Noah,” Quinn interjected, sucking in a nervous breath. He fell silent, eyebrows rising questioningly.

            “Stay with me?” she whispered, and his mouth fell slightly open, eyes flying wide. Quinn pressed her lips together, flushing and looking quickly down at the floor. The snap of her door closing startled her into glancing up, and she saw Noah smile before he removed his shoes and climbed onto the bed, capturing her lips in a long, lingering kiss.

            She breathed out against his lips, pulling him to her and letting her hands travel up his chest, over his shoulders, fingers digging into his back as he pulled her leg up to hook around his hip. Their kisses deepened and Noah rolled slowly to the side, pulling Quinn up to straddle his waist. Their breath mingled, hot in the already humid air, and Quinn yanked Noah’s shirt out from the waist of his pants, sliding her hands up his chest.

            “In front of the baby?” Noah chuckled, fingers dancing over the buttons of her dress, and Quinn pressed her hand to his lips, casting a glance over at Blaine.

            “He’s sleeping.”

            Noah smiled and stretched up to plant a line of wet, open-mouthed kisses to her neck, nosing the fabric of her dress aside as she laughed, hands catching in his hair.

            Blaine Anderson-Button, cocooned warm and content in his blankets, slept on.