short fiction · 2026-10-22

Whispers of the Clockwork

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

At midnight the tower of brass gears began to murmur, each tick a soft syllable that rose above the hush of the night. The hands, polished like moon‑silver, moved in deliberate steps, and from their shadows slipped fragments of forgotten lullabies. One particular clock, its face etched with runes older than any calendar, seemed to speak in riddles: “Time is a song, and every second sings what it has seen.” I pressed my ear to its casing, feeling the pulse of centuries, and understood that the world had been listening all along, waiting for someone brave enough to hear.