Thoughts Sift

She walked past the bookstore, the smell of old paper nudging her thoughts like a forgotten conspirator. Worn out histories whispered from the shelves, promising wisdom and deceit in equal measure.

It was said that every clock held a secret in its gears. A pause in time, a whispered regret, or a dream yet unfulfilled. The clock shop on Larkin knew them all, its windows weepingly accurate.

"If you listen closely..." he began, his voice a murmur of sand and time. "You can hear the past. Not as echoes, but as fragments, like notes unplayed in a silent symphony."