The workshop was silent except for the ticking of a hundred clocks. Elias, the apprentice, had spent the morning polishing the brass gears of the master’s latest commission—a clock meant to hang in the town hall, its chimes marking the hours for generations to come. But his mind was elsewhere.
Three nights earlier, he had dreamed of a clock that didn’t tell time, but stole it. In the dream, the clock’s hands moved backward, and the people around it grew younger, their memories fading like ink in rain. When he woke, the dream clung to him like cobwebs, and he couldn’t shake the feeling that it meant something.
"Elias," the master’s voice cut through his thoughts. "The town hall clock—its chime mechanism is misaligned. I need you to adjust the hammer strike." The master held out a small brass key, its bow shaped like a crescent moon. "Be precise. The mayor will be here at dusk to collect it."
Elias took the key, his fingers brushing the cold metal. As he turned toward the workbench, he noticed something strange: the key’s teeth didn’t match any lock he’d seen in the workshop. It was as if it belonged to a door that didn’t exist.
He hesitated. "Master, where does this key go?"
The master’s expression darkened. "It’s not your concern. Just fix the chime."
Elias nodded, but his curiosity burned. That night, after the master had retired to his quarters, Elias crept back into the workshop. The town hall clock stood in the center of the room, its face glowing faintly in the moonlight. He inserted the key into a tiny, almost invisible keyhole beneath the clock’s face.
A soft click. The clock’s hands stuttered, then began moving backward.
Elias’s breath caught. The dream hadn’t been a dream at all.
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