Sometimes, when the clock ticks, she hears echoes of... whispers, floating in the gears and cogs. It's like a song that never quite ends, just... looping. Her fingers trace the etched patterns... In the...
But why does she care? The hands, they _never_ stop moving. Yet, she stands still. Frozen... in this time tide. Was it the hourglass that lost its sand? Or was it him... the clockmaker calling her back, always back?
- Memory is the clock that...
- Ticks of the pendulum swing back, forth, back...
- The daughter once made a wish to...
- She walked... the gears remember her footfalls...
Tick. Tock. What's real and what's dream? Somewhere there's a world where clocks speak and the daughter answers. And in that world, voices echo without asking for permission to linger just a moment longer, before slipping...
The labyrinth of time, unexpected doors unlock and memories align not in straight paths but in... cur...