It was a pocketwatch, wrought in gold. The casing was engraved with swirling patterns, but around the edges these were worn smooth, the careful, artist’s lines obliterated by time and curious fingers. Mine, most likely, as a small child, and probably my father’s before me.

The clasp was still sound. The watch still clicked open with a satisfying ‘snap’, the delicate metal still surprisingly stiff. These details were nothing compared with what was inside.

The face was unremarkable, a plain white face marked with the hours in roman numerals. Underneath the face, behind a second clasp, this one less well used than the first, lay nothing. Not just an empty watch. There was no clockwork in there, but that wasn’t the strangest thing. I couldn’t see the back. Instead there was a hole. A hole in the world, blacker than night. The edge of the watch swirled gently with dark blue, but otherwise it was like staring into forever.

I spent a long time trying to figure out how it worked with no insides. Most things don’t.