At the top of the tower, past the rusted gears and echoing bells, lies a room untouched by the present. It smells of leather and lost years, and the floor creaks under the weight of unsaid thoughts. In the center sits a clock with no hands, ticking anyway. A thousand journals line the shelves, their pages blank, yet heavy with meaning. The Timekeeper once lived here, scribbling dreams that never reached morning.
A Stairwell to the Unwritten Past
Every step downwards leads to something older than memory. Dust clings to the walls like regret, and time doesn’t behave the same. Mirrors along the stairwell reflect people who’ve never lived, yet seem familiar. At the bottom, there’s a locked door with no keyhole. Some say it opens for those who forget what they’re looking for. Others claim it’s just a trick of the dark, like so many things in this place.
Time doesn’t pass here—it watches, waits, and wonders if we’ll notice it’s still alive.
The Whispers in the Pendulums
The great clock’s pendulums swing not with seconds, but with secrets. Each tick hums a memory into the air, each tock sways with the rhythm of forgotten lullabies. It’s said that if you listen closely, you can hear the moments people almost spoke their hearts. But no one stays long. The sound is too heavy, like trying to lift a name you’ve never learned but always known.
