The Faceless Clockmaker

The town’s clockmaker had no face, only a smooth surface reflecting the most confused hour.

In his workshop, time behaved like a mischievous pet. Every morning, clocks argued.

One claimed it was tomorrow, another insisted it was last week. The grandfather clock

only spoke for poetry. The clockmaker never spoke. He tuned time

by simply listening. His problem? He couldn’t hear minutes properly. They sounded like

distant laughter in a language yet uninvented. Because of this, clocks grew eccentric:

some ticked in rhymes, others to nonexistent footsteps, one chimed with

every sad thought. People brought broken watches, picking them up to find them