Mr. Pendelton was the best clockmaker in the village, a man obsessed with precision and timing. He was old, and his greatest regret was a terrible argument he had with his grandfather years ago that he never got to fix.
He built a time machine. It was a beautiful thing, powered by kinetic energy and a complex system of cogs and balance wheels. He stepped inside, intending to travel back five decades, shake his younger self, and apologize to his grandfather.
He arrived in the past, exactly the day of the argument. He saw his younger self, headstrong and proud, walking toward the confrontation. He saw his grandfather sitting on the porch swing.
But as he tried to approach them, he found he couldn't interact with his past self. Time wouldn't allow two versions of the same person to touch or even speak directly. It was a built-in safety mechanism against paradoxes.
Pendelton, the old man, sat down a few feet away from his grandfather. He didn’t say a word about the future or the argument. He just sat on the porch swing, keeping his grandfather company in silence.
When his younger self walked up and began the argument, the grandfather didn't seem as angry as Pendelton remembered. He was calmer, less reactive.
Old Pendelton realized his presence, silent and observational, had subtly changed the dynamics. The argument was shorter, less bitter. The grandfather had the peace of knowing someone was there with him.
Pendelton returned to his own time, having successfully changed the past not with words or grand gestures, but with silent presence. He went home and finished the clock he was working on, the weight of regret lifted from his shoulders.
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