Excerpt of Time Clocks by Yoav Avni

Chapter 1

Among the Threads, Three Arise

It was not a live broadcast. The show was scheduled to air on Saturday night — and Boaz watched the unfolding scene on the small screen mounted on the wall of the room where he was waiting.

Soon he would be called onto the glittering stage, where he would find himself wishing he could turn back time. Not to buy a winning lottery ticket or stop one of history’s worst tyrants from ever being born. No. Boaz Grand would return to this Thursday afternoon, to this very moment, and inform the production team of Easy Does It that he, regretfully, could not participate. Any excuse would suffice — just to avoid sinking into that plush, lulling armchair and revealing something he should never have said.

The audience fell silent as the host recited the enigmatic words in his booming voice: “Among the threads, three arise!”

A pause for effect, and then: “We will take a short commercial break. When we return, we will move on to the segment we have all been waiting for, featuring a very special guest on our panel. And no — it will not be another family member, I promise. A mom on the panel is more than enough — especially one like mine.” Amid the laughter, he gestured and assured everyone, “Two minutes, and we will be back!”

A luxury car, a telecom provider, a retail chain, a lingerie brand, and a bank ad later, the studio was once again bathed in crimson and gold.

It was just another talk show — a genre that had seen little innovation for decades: audience, lighting, stage, host’s desk, guest armchairs, commercial breaks, and, of course, the familiar catchphrase: “We are back!” But Easy Does It was a rare television phenomenon, staying relevant both for weekend night family living room discussions and weekday morning office chatter. Its strength was in its blend of wit and depth, anchored by a host with dazzling teeth, perfectly coiffed hair, and an untarnished reputation. Above all, the show’s staying power rested on its exclusive weekly feature: the segment Boaz was about to join — without which the show would have been axed and tossed into the dustbin of broadcast history.

The production assistant cracked the door open and stuck his head in. “He’s about to call the regulars, then you. When he says your name, I’ll take you to the studio.” And with that, he vanished as quickly as he had appeared.

“We are back!” The host flashed his well‑rehearsed smile as applause erupted. “Now, I am pleased to welcome the members of our panel, who will analyze this week’s limerick, composed by none other than…” He turned his gaze upward to the massive studio screen, which flickered and stabilized to reveal a platinum‑haired figure with chiseled cheekbones. “How are you?” he asked his virtual contributor.

“Wonderful,” came the reply, basking in the applause.

Its voice, so familiar to Boaz, was a blend of electric citrus blossom — artificially smooth, yet oddly captivating.

“Before we bring out the others, can you recite the latest prophecy? Earlier, before the break, I revealed one line: ‘Among the threads, three arise.’ Fantastic and intriguing, as always. But let us hear the whole limerick, shall we?”

“Of course.” After a perfectly timed clearing of its synthetic throat, it delivered:

“The plane of time is not so plain,
Its hues defy black‑and‑white domain.
Among the threads, three arise,
Guard their souls, the sage implies.
A task awaits beyond time’s chain.”

“Thank you, FocalAI!” the host announced, bowing slightly toward the state‑of‑the‑art system, “the nation’s AI!”

“Respect is earned, not driven!” the system quipped as the applause swelled.

Boaz had already seen the limerick at the office earlier that week. Anticipating his turn, he stretched, then paced the length of the waiting room.

“And now, I am honored to introduce our panel: the legendary sportscaster Avi Achituv, the esteemed movie director Dalia Eshet, the sharp parliamentary adviser Dor Elron, and, of course, the one and only: Mother!”

As usual, the four panelists took their places in the semicircular arrangement of crimson armchairs facing the host. But this time, there was one more empty seat — a surprise the host quickly revealed: “Boaz Grand!”

Right on cue, the waiting room door swung open, and Boaz tried to focus on what lay ahead, pushing aside the unsettling sense that the hallway leading to the studio resembled a long, narrow tunnel ending in a blinding white light.