Time flows, a river beneath the surface, and sometimes it eddies in curious pools. In those rare moments, we glimpse what was, through the eyes of what is—the eyes of a clock, perhaps? A clock made not of brass and silicon, but of weathered wood and whispered dreams.
Ever heard a clock talk when the world goes quiet? No? Well, sometimes, when the wind’s right, you can hear the tales it tells—weaving threads of stories like a spider's web, catching moments rather than flies. There's something gold in that silence, something worth savoring.