Even in its posed silence, the clock ticked— not with hands tracing hours, but with whispers of what could have been. Its secrets, encased between ticks, hung in moments so delicate they could fall, yet nobody dared to listen.
On whispering walls, shadows danced with the clock's refulgent glow, telling tales of forgotten promises and unsent letters, resting alongside those who forgot to forget. As you peer closer, do you hear? Echoes of the past await.
Outside this clock's hushed domain lies the world anew, unsettled. But here you stand, fascinated by time's paused embrace. A secret within you blooms—a knowledge unknown; even clocks, it reasons, need breaks from their pace.
And so the numbers fade from relevance, their sequence a mere ornament, for the true story ticks in patterns of silence. Speak softly, or else face the consequence of knowing too much.
If you were to listen, that fragile flower of truth might unfold. Would it change you, or simply color your reality differently? Answer, if you dare: Poll yourself