Watch

A watch is worn on the wrist to tell time. But it never measures just time. I have a watch that was left to me by my father. The face is already a bit scratched, and I've replaced the strap twice, but it still works. The hands move tick by tick, like a silent old man, unhurriedly counting his steps. When I wear it, I occasionally look down, not to check the time, but to feel that my father is still here. His time is hidden within that watch—the time he went to work, the time he came home, the time he dozed off on the sofa. Those times are long gone, but the watch remembers. When I was young, I always felt time moved so slowly. During class, I'd stare at the clock on the classroom wall, and the second hand seemed stuck, never moving fast enough. The moment the bell rang for break, time would suddenly speed up, ten minutes feeling like ten seconds, vanishing without a trace. I didn't understand then why the same amount of time could feel so different. I later realized that time itself doesn't change; we do. The older we get, the faster time runs, so fast that you can't grab onto anything. Some say people wear watches because they're afraid of being late. But I think people wear watches because they're afraid of missing out. Missing a train, a date, something you should have said. The watch reminds us: time is limited, don't waste it. But it doesn't tell us what is worth spending time on. That's up to us to decide. I still wear a watch now, but I don't check the time very often. I let it rest quietly on my wrist, like an old friend. It doesn't need to talk all the time, but knowing it's there brings a sense of peace. Sometimes I take the watch