Have you ever stopped to listen to the whispers from a clock left in the corner? The way it echoes tales of hours slipped away like soft whispers in a long-lost dream?
There's one in the attic, dusty and cracked. Sometimes I hear it tell stories of restless afternoons when the sun stood still, but no one cares much for time in the attic anymore. Just the clock and its voices, which spill memories of forgotten guests who left shadows behind under the beams.
"Once upon a tick," I murmured, but none was there to hear but the clock itself. It chuckled softly, or maybe it sighed. Anyhow, the pendulum kept a steady rhythm, like it was keeping time with my heart or the ghosts that danced hidden behind old walls.
And how odd it is, really. Time seems to pause, caught in a loop of endless tick-tocks, while I stand still, lost somewhere between yesterday's whispers and tomorrow's echoes. The clock doesn't ask questions. It just ticks, patiently unraveling the threads of moments that once were and maybe could be again.
So we sit together, the clock and I, its voice an anchor in a sea of silent dreams. A constant reminder that even when time stands still, there are stories waiting to be told, whispered through the cracks of eternity. If you listen closely, you'll hear them, in the soft rustle of the metronomic breaths.
Follow the murmurs Trace the fading memories