In a corner where time twists and turns like lazy vapors, it is said there are custodians. These whispers? Well, they're mischievous companions.
The mantle clock sighs, every tick a secret, every tock a betrayal. They hold keys that unlock hours, but for whom?
When numerals vanish, the guardians arise. Their task? A puzzle laid bare in nocturne fog.
Are you lost or exploring? That's the riddle—turn through the pages:
Clocks strike but shadows dance. We hinge on tickled minutes and tantalizing intervals.
'Time flies on myriad wings—but tick, it pecks at what's chaotically spent,' it's said in the corner tavern among clinking mugs.