The Carousel of Lost Time  

The carousel in the old square was not like the others. Its music, creaky and distant, sounded like a whisper from another century. The village children avoided it after nightfall—not out of fear, but because something strange happened when its flickering lights turned on.  

Where others saw worn wooden horses and garish carriages, Clark saw something more. The first time he noticed it, he was seven years old. He had climbed onto the black steed, the one with mirror eyes, and when the carousel began to spin, the world around him blurred. The air vibrated, the colors stretched like molasses, and for an instant—brief as a firefly’s wingbeat—Clark felt time stop. Or rather, that it moved faster than he did.  

Between flashes, he saw impossible things: his grandfather, dead for years, waving from the edge of the square; his future self, a silver-haired man, riding the same horse with a sad smile; and then, like a fading dream, everything returned to normal. The carousel slowed, the music faded, and the other children kept laughing, unaware of what had happened.  

By the time he was twelve, Clark understood: the carousel didn’t just spin. It traveled.  

It didn’t always work. Sometimes it was just a simple fairground ride, rusty and slow. But on full-moon nights, when the mist curled around its columns, the carousel reached an impossible speed. And then, if you held on tight enough, you could peek into another time.  The last time Clark tried, he was looking for his little brother, who had disappeared years before in an accident no one remembered clearly. He climbed onto the white horse, closed his eyes, and felt the pull of vertigo. Time tore open.  

When he opened his eyes, the carousel was intact, gleaming as if new. And there, among the laughter of children from another era, was him: his brother, with the same untied shoes, spinning in an endless turn.  

"Wait for me!" Clark shouted, reaching out his hand.  

But the carousel never stopped completely.  

And time, as always, moved forward.

By Carlos del Puente relatos