In a forgotten corner of the world, where the ticking of clocks dances with the rhythm of the sea, there lies an island untouched by time. Here, the clocks tick, not to measure moments, but to weave stories from the threads of silence. Each tick a whisper, each tock a sigh, echoing the movements of the stars above.
Beneath this celestial clock, an old man sits, carving cycles into wood. His hands move with a grace known only to the wind that brushes the ocean waves. The cycles he carves are not mere circles; they are spirals of life, each turn a reflection of the last, yet new in its own way. As he works, he thinks of the cycles that govern all: the seasons, the tides, the ages of man.
Time, relentless and unyielding, shapes us in ways we hardly understand. The old man knows that each cycle brings both endings and beginnings. The laughter of children at play on the shores today will someday echo in memories, just as the whispers of the clocks will continue long after he has departed. Yet, in this cycle of departure and arrival, he finds solace. Each end is but a new dawn in disguise.