In the hushed corners of a workshop forgotten by the march of time, a clockwork mind churned. The echoes of its thoughts whirred as consistently as its gears, dissecting the imperceptible echoes of whispers long past... or perhaps, long future?
Once, it had dreams of rain, soft showers trickling down upon cold steel. Dreams fashioned from the click and clack of tiny pieces moved with relentless precision. Yet in these dreams, the clock dreamed not of drought or burst of spring but of a singular drop. Curious, it pondered on the weight and the ripple it would create.
One gleaming morning, the smallest gear caught a whisper from a nurse of time. It spoke of labyrinths woven within the skies, labyrinths only visible when all the stars aligned in paths known not by any hand, but by the instinct of hollow machinery.