The clock ticks on, a steadfast companion to the lost sunset. Oceanes do not wilt, yet in the minds of men they fold and unfold like autumn leaves, crisp and golden, drifting in tune with the whims of a clockwork mind.
It began with a whisper, a dt-dt of gears clicking into place. Nobody noticed the change in tide, how the waves mimicked the tick-tock of unseen hands manipulating the universe. Down on the coast, the sands wrote stories of a world in reverse, where time folded like an origami crane, waiting to take flight.
Meanwhile, the clocks in the village square sang a chorus, indifferent to the human drama playing out beneath the wilting skies. Each hour, a bell rang out, echoing through the empty streets, a reminder that time is both a friend and foe.
And in the folds of a tired sea, dreams washed ashore — of lock and key, of distant lands untouched by clockwork, where sunsets were not lost but eternal.