the clockmakers whisper,

In a quiet village nestled between two forgotten hills, there lived an old clockmaker name Elior. his tiny shop. wedged between a blacksmith's forge and a shuttered bakery, smelled of oil,brass and lavender. no one knew where he came from, and few remembered a time before he was there.

Elior rarely spoke, but when he did, his words felt like they had traveled through centuries. His eyes shimmered with something more than age—perhaps it was memory, perhaps it was sorrow. He spent his days repairing

broken clocks, though oddly, no one remembered bringing them in.

One day, a girl named Lira wandered into the shop. She wasn’t from the village. A traveler’s child, she had wandered off while her parent's traded cloth and spice at the local market.

The shop was dim and humming softly. She tiptoed inside, drawn by the delicate tick-tick-tick echoing through the air. Clocks of all shapes lined the walls—grandfather clocks, pocket watches, cuckoo clocks—all ticking in harmony, except for one. A small, glass-domed watch on the center table sat still.

Elior looked up, eyes locking onto hers. “You hear the silence too,” he said.

Lira nodded, though she didn’t fully understand.

“That one,” he gestured to the silent watch, “hasn’t ticked in a hundred years.”

“Why not fix it?” she asked.

“I can’t,” he replied simply. “It’s not broken.”

Lira frowned. “But it doesn’t work.”

Elior leaned closer, whispering, “That watch holds time itself. Not minutes or hours, but moments. It only ticks when someone remembers something the world has forgotten.”

“Like what?” she whispered back.

“Like the name of the first tree. Or the scent of rain on a planet that no longer exists.”

Lira stared at the watch, fascinated. “Can I try?”

Elior smiled gently. “You may. But be warned: remembering is not always safe. Some memories bite.”

Lira placed her hand on the glass dome. The room dimmed, clocks quieted. In her mind, a memory surged—not her own, but one older, deeper. A sunlit field, two children chasing a red kite. A woman’s voice singing in a language lost to time. Then—nothing. A sharp coldness. Silence.

The watch ticked once.

Elior’s eyes widened.

“You’ve remembered something,” he said, voice trembling. “Something very old.”

“I saw people,” she said. “And a red kite. I think... I think they were happy.”

Elior stood, slower than he’d ever moved before. “This hasn’t happened in decades. Maybe longer.”

He walked over, hands hovering above the glass as if it were sacred. The tick had stopped again, but the silence now felt warm.

“You’ve awakened it. Which means the world is ready to remember again.”

“What do I do?” Lira asked.

“You’ll take it,” Elior said. “The watch belongs to a Rememberer. It chooses.”

“But I’m just a kid.”

“All Remembers begin that way,” he smiled.

He wrapped the watch carefully in velvet and handed it to her. The moment she touched it, a second tick echoed.

“Every tick is a truth reborn. Walk the world, Lira. Find the forgotten. And never let the watch stop.”

She left the shop clutching the bundle. Her parents found her moments later, unaware of the time she had spent inside.

Behind her, Elior watched from the doorway. Then, with a sigh of finality, he turned back to his empty shop.

All the clocks had stopped. NO PHOTO

END

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