The Clockmaker’s Silence

They said the clockmaker had vanished decades ago, leaving only his shop behind.

And yet, on a storm-ravaged evening, curiosity drew me to its warped door

as if it had been waiting for me, long enough to learn my name. The windows were

dark, thick with decades of grime, but a faint amber light trembled within.

I stepped inside. The air was heavy, a dense mixture of dust, oil,

and the faint, metallic tang of rust. Hundreds of clocks lined the walls,

some cracked, some ticking with uneven rhythms that did not match any time I knew.

Their hands spun, paused, or jerked backward, as if the passage of hours had no