"Is it Tuesday again?" she mused, her voice barely above the whirr of invisible cogs. "Time has a funny way of sneaking past when you leave the door ajar to the mind's attic."
"Remember the song the wind sings when it passes through old keyholes?" he replied wistfully, adjusting the bowtie made of forgotten melodies. "It's the same tune the clock hums when it thinks nobody's listening."
The old clock on the mantle tilted its face slightly, as if in agreement, the pendulum syncing with the heartbeat of dreams left unattended in the basement of reason.
Perhaps it was the hour when thoughts danced prettily on the fringes, whispering secrets better left untold. "What are you keeping from us, old friend?" she hummed at the clock, her eyes twinkling with the mischief of moths.