《The Gears of Silence》 Prelude to Oblivion "I will not lie to myself, nor will I seek another answer. I have accepted it." "I gaze around me, remembering that at the beginning I saw everything in an innocent... naive way. I don''t regret it, but maybe, if someone had told me back then what would happen, I probably wouldn¡¯t have done it." "My life was ordinary. Waking up at the same time every day, walking the same streets, wearing the same clothes, having the same thoughts, seeing the same faces. And it was simple. So simple that it hurt. But it was my life."You could be reading stolen content. Head to Royal Road for the genuine story. "I accept my fate. What a madness of reality we all live in. The only thing I will regret is not leaving... something in others." "A thank you, a hug, a compliment, a memory, a brother to remember, a son to criticize, a leader to follow, a friend to trust, a companion to rely on. But..." "Everything fades away, and so am I." "I am about to surrender to my own power. How ironic, isn''t it? Though, in truth, it was obvious from the start." "..." "Everything ends, and this is my finale." Prologue to a Tragedy 1874 - Somewhere in the Empire. It¡¯s raining. A downpour. I stepped into a shop with a sign on the door: "Closing Soon." I decided to enter and saw the owner, looking worn down, clutching the shillings in his pocket. He took a second before telling me the price, as if afraid it would be too expensive. He told me it cost about two shillings. I don¡¯t know why it was so cheap. Maybe because I looked drenched (I must have looked like a vagabond, soaked by the rain), or because of my face when I asked about the price. Either way, I paid, leaving me with a miserable three shillings. Before stepping out, I opened my umbrella¡ªit had a black-and-white striped pattern. I sighed and stepped into the cold night streets. As I walked, a rain-soaked poster peeled off the wall and landed at my feet. "Our Leader is our Future. One Nation, One Will." I ignored it and kept walking. I passed by the locals¡ªa butcher shop, a place promising cheap medicine, a restaurant, a clothing store, and finally, a bookstore. It was well-known in the southern district, not for its prices or selection, but for the habit of throwing out unsold books into the street. Something I appreciated. After all, with everything I read during university, I had developed a taste for books. At the street corner, I glanced left. Nothing unusual, except for the distant sight of the walls. The Capital stood on the left side, with all those noble mansions¡ªparasites living off the state, if you ask me. And then, the Tower. An Obelisk of Silence. Black. Pure. Its silhouette loomed over the city like a watchful specter. Something about it was observing you, even though it had no eyes. The light at its peak shone at night, sweeping across the streets as if searching for someone. I never understood the others¡­ How do they not see it? There¡¯s something in that thing, something that shouldn¡¯t be there. It was erected in less than a year. Maybe with slave labor. Maybe just as a monument to power. But no one questions it. It is the symbol of the dictatorship, a reminder of who is in charge. In the distance, down a parallel street, a scream rang out. It didn¡¯t call for help. It didn¡¯t beg. It just screamed. As if knowing it wouldn¡¯t make a difference. I stopped for a moment, feeling a knot in my stomach. I shouldn¡¯t look. I shouldn¡¯t listen. "It¡¯s best to stay quiet." Here, a careless comment is enough to make you disappear. As I reached my doorway, I found my landlord staring at me. My hand tensed in my pocket, gripping the three shillings as if that would change anything. "Ethan, when do you plan to pay the rent? Your brother hasn¡¯t arrived yet, and I¡¯m not letting you go another week without paying." His expression was pure resignation, directed entirely at me. "Yeah, yeah, stop torturing me. We¡¯ll pay on Sunday. It¡¯s only Thursday, and you¡¯re already starting." Gordon, the landlord, scoffed. "If you paid more regularly, I wouldn¡¯t have to remind you. But I suppose you¡¯re not worse than Jane."This text was taken from Royal Road. Help the author by reading the original version there. Jane, the neighbor in the room next to mine, was number five. I was number four. If I wasn¡¯t mistaken, she lived alone. I had never spoken to her, though I was sure I had heard Paul talking to her before. "Gordon, we¡¯ll pay by Sunday at the latest. Now, can you let me in? I¡¯m standing here getting soaked like an idiot." "Fine, go in already. I¡¯m off to speak with the ever-mysterious and good-for-nothing Jane." I climbed the stairs and inserted the key¡ªan ordinary-looking key with a copper color and a small number four stuck onto it. "I open the door. My apartment is¡­ humble. A living room two meters wide and four meters long, a kitchen in the left corner, and a coat rack right at the entrance." "Looks like Paul isn¡¯t back yet..." To the right, there was a door leading to a bedroom with a bunk bed. Ten shillings a month. Not cheap, but not expensive either. I couldn¡¯t complain, considering where we could have ended up¡ªthe western district was far worse than the southern one. I put my things away and left my umbrella by the entrance to avoid dripping water inside. Checking my pockets, I took out my shillings and stored them in a small box above the wardrobe. Initially, we used it to hide our money in case of theft, but it had turned into a tradition left behind by Emma. I thought about her. I wondered how our family¡¯s life would have turned out if Father had lived a little longer. Or if we hadn¡¯t fought. After all, we were three siblings. Shaking off the moment of reflection, I stepped into the kitchen and started making "soup." I chopped some potatoes, carrots, and sweet potatoes and left them to boil in water. We had no gas, but Paul and I had found a solution¡ªusing the steam pipes that led to Gordon¡¯s doorway. They were always radiating heat, enough to burn your hand. I placed the pot close enough for the heat to do its work. After a bit of time, I tossed in some spices. No meat. Or rather, I wasn¡¯t about to waste money on it. We weren¡¯t that luxurious. After waiting about ten minutes, the soup was ready. "Looks like Paul won¡¯t be back in time." Lately, Paul¡¯s shifts had been getting later and later. I wondered what would happen next. Would he start spending nights at the factory? I couldn¡¯t blame him. I should blame myself. He quit his studies so I could finish mine. A mechanical engineer. And now? I ended up as a watchmaker. I ate, then left my luxury suite to use the public restroom. I washed my hands and brushed my teeth with water. Looking into the mirror, there was nothing remarkable¡ªa 21-year-old, recently graduated, working at a watch shop. Handsome¡ªthough only I told myself that. Black hair. Brown eyes. Painfully common, but it was my reality. I left the restroom and returned to the apartment. Climbing into my bunk, I lay down. Maybe it was my thoughts, my upbringing, my connections¡ªor God¡ªwhatever led me to contemplate my reality. But time... Time felt like a cruel joke. It was pushing me forward into a situation I never chose for myself. But I didn¡¯t hate my life. It was mine. And it had to be lived. Even if that meant enduring the lows. "A watchmaker and poor. My sad reality. What a waste of time. Ha, ''time.'' Like some wise man said in the Third Epoch¡ª''Never meddle with time.''" "He wasn¡¯t wrong, I suppose. But who am I to reflect on the delusions and philosophy of a senile old man from over 1,400 years ago?" Paul once burst in laughing and said: "Everything arrives in its time." But¡­ damn time! "Is it crawling on its knees or what?!" All because his order of fancy clothes for my graduation was delayed. I laughed to myself. Time flies by in the blink of an eye¡­ or the flap of a butterfly¡¯s wings. But when I want it to run, it crawls. As if time knows I¡¯m trapped in it. "It hasn¡¯t even been five months since my graduation." But fate doesn¡¯t have the habit of leaving me alone. Not when someone else is about to make a decision that will change everything. Somewhere in the Military Residential Zone When I was a child, Mother gave me a gramophone with the song "Thorns in You." It¡¯s a good melody. I also remember the first time I fired my revolver. At first, I had one that shot corks from bottles. But now, it fires gunpowder. The first time I pulled the trigger of a real gun, the vibration ran through my arm up to my shoulder. They told me that was normal. I only thought about how something so small could decide between life and death. "Father, the gramophone is broken again." A complaint echoed from afar. "Call Chris to fix this damn thing already!" I approached the telegraph and tried to send him a message in Morse code. The telegraph was the invention of the century, created relatively recently by one of our nation¡¯s scientists. It was developed during the war. But today, in times of peace, it had become an everyday tool. I sent the message to Mr. Chris. He was a reserved man but knowledgeable, someone who kept this house from falling apart. I wouldn¡¯t know how to listen to all those melodies without him. I wondered what his life was like. I had only spoken to him twice, exchanging little more than a few words and some money. But he agreed to come. "Father, I¡¯ve notified him. He said he¡¯ll be here in about ten minutes." "Perfect. The money is where it always is. You¡¯re dismissed." The money was in my father¡¯s office, inside one of the main drawers¡ªabout three pounds and twenty shillings. "How the military salary has fallen, huh?" I took the usual amount¡ªfour shillings for the repair¡ªand walked to the window while waiting for Mr. Chris to arrive. From here, I could see the majestic structure¡ªthe Tower of Renewal. They called it "The Obelisk of Silence," "The Raven¡¯s Nest"¡­ nonsense from insurgents who didn¡¯t understand the importance of order. Fortunately, they were a minority. And I existed to ensure they remained one. "So they never dare to rise again." The Smallest Gear I open my eyes and stretch all four of my limbs. I blink several times before rubbing my eyes. I look straight ahead and see the ceiling. There are some holes along the edges, and the paint is peeling due to moisture. I feel the warm wind passing through the window. It¡¯s hot. That makes sense. After all, today is Luxenor 3rd, 1874¡ªa Friday. The days are scorching, and at night, it pours. The Imperial Calendar consists of ten months, each with 36 days, structured according to the Emperor¡¯s decree during the Third Epoch. That¡¯s what we were taught in school. I remember once seeing an old calendar among my father¡¯s belongings. It was different. The numbers didn¡¯t match. There was something strange about how the months were organized, but back then, I didn¡¯t think much of it. It was probably a printing error. I climb down from my bunk and look out the window. It was already daytime. Every morning, I wake up before my alarm. "It must be around seven. Paul has probably already left. He¡¯ll be back by three, most likely." I glance at my father¡¯s watch. "I swear the hand moved slightly¡­ hmm, I¡¯m probably imagining it." I look at my father¡¯s watch again. It¡¯s a normal timepiece, but quite stubborn¡ªdark blue strap, hands with white tips and a light blue body. The glass has a visible crack on the left side. The lugs are intact. And this damned thing still shows 11:59. It has for a long time. My father, the only son of the Veyne family, was known to everyone as Roman Veyne. I never met my grandparents. Not that I was interested, nor that my father ever opened up about them. He was a man of few words. Some described him as kind to the weak, ruthless to the powerful. Not that he was powerful himself. Though, in truth, I don¡¯t know much about his past. My knowledge begins from the moment he crossed paths with my mother. Unlike him, my mother¡ªSelene Aldrose¡ªwas a different kind of woman. She was what you¡¯d call a fighter, unyielding in her beliefs, never one to back down. She had a different way of thinking. I suppose that¡¯s why I think the way I do. I take after her, after all. What am I thinking? I should have breakfast and get ready to head out. Ethan rubs the watch¡¯s glass and sets it on his desk. I prepare a simple breakfast¡ªbread and some watery coffee. As a special treat, the other day, Miss Brown gave me a small can of tuna as a gift. I¡¯ll spread it on the bread to make it less miserable. After eating, I head to my room to grab my brown jacket and my watch. "A blue watch. These models have gone out of style nowadays. It has no brand, so I suppose it was custom-made for my father. But there¡¯s something engraved on the top¡ª¡®Watch of N¡­¡¯ The watch is old. No surprise the engraving has faded. It doesn¡¯t even have my siblings¡¯ or mother¡¯s initials. Maybe it was meant for a client but was never delivered." With everything ready, I grab a few shillings from the box above the wardrobe and head out for errands. Streets of the Southern District As I step outside, I hear Gordon arguing with the tenants. I don¡¯t blame him. I owe a week¡¯s rent. Some people here owe years worth of payments. Poor Gordon. Not that I feel real empathy. But it would hurt to own a business and have no one respect it. Maybe it¡¯s because he doesn¡¯t have an intimidating presence or instills no fear in others. May the Goddess Athiriel be with him. Stepping through the doorway, I enter Veymont Street. I glance around¡ªthe people crossing the sidewalks, children playing with small marbles, a bard singing at the end of the street, shops opening for the day. "Looks like the butcher hasn¡¯t opened yet." I head toward Solmire Street. Ironic that a street named after such a respected general is in this condition. I see people dressed in all sorts of attire¡ªsome in factory uniforms, others in suits, some in loose-fitting clothes, and a few wearing elegant designs like proper gentlemen. How much did a suit cost? About 15 shillings. Rent was 10 shillings. And yesterday¡¯s umbrella cost 2 shillings¡ªthough that was an anomaly. One day, I¡¯ll have one like those men.If you encounter this story on Amazon, note that it''s taken without permission from the author. Report it. I follow the street and spot the vegetable stand. I approach and greet Miss Claus. "Hello, everything good, Ethan?" "What do you consider ¡®good,¡¯ Miss Claus?" "You and your questions. It¡¯s just a greeting, Ethan." "I know. I¡¯m just a bit annoyed¡­ how much for potatoes, carrots, sweet potatoes, onions, and greens?" "The usual, right? Two potatoes, one carrot, half a sweet potato, one onion, and some greens. That¡¯ll be seven pence, Ethan." "Strange. Prices haven¡¯t gone up? I thought inflation was getting worse." "Since His Lordship arrived, the economy has been stabilizing." Hmm. She¡¯s not wrong. But maybe¡­ "Here¡¯s your payment, Miss Claus. I¡¯ll head home and get ready for work." "Take care, Ethan. And remember, your face is hard to read for strangers, but for those who know you, you¡¯re an open book. I¡¯d suggest working on that." "¡­" I didn¡¯t think I was that easy to read. I¡¯ll have to work on that. "I¡¯ll keep that in mind, Miss Claus." I make my way back to the apartment. Along the way, I hear the bard and listen closely. "The Emperor Traed¡¯s March." I thought it was banned. Hmm. I step into the apartment to drop off the groceries and leave a note¡ªsloppily written:
"Paul, I¡¯ll be back by 5 at the latest. Remember to buy meat. The butcher hasn¡¯t opened yet. If you can, try to cut down your hours. Don¡¯t work double shifts. You¡¯re not alone, idiot. With absolutely no affection, Ethan."
The Imperial Tower I step outside and look up. The Imperial Tower and its massive clock have been there for as long as I can remember. Its hands never stop, as if marking the rhythm of the Empire itself. I don¡¯t know who built it. I only know that, somehow, its presence has always unsettled me. "It¡¯s 7:30." The morning heat was already settling in, clinging to the skin like invisible sweat. If the clouds didn¡¯t roll in, today would be one of those days where the asphalt felt like it was melting under your feet. I sometimes wonder¡ªif that clock were to stop one day, if the Empire¡¯s time ceased to move forward¡­ Would we keep moving? Or would we freeze alongside it? I head to Bracquemont Street, three blocks past Solmire Street before turning right. The shops here have more personality. "Money reigns here, hmm." Damn money. I always think it should all go to hell, but¡­ would that mean I go to hell too? Upon reaching Bracquemont, I see rows of struggling artisan and specialty shops. Among them, one stands out¡ªNararte Watchmaking. A name chosen by my father and his friend, German. He took us in when my father died. A man in the last stage of his life. He has a son¡ªSmith. I¡¯ve never met him, but I¡¯ve heard things about him from his father. I approach the shop. I approach and see the shop from the front¡ªa place with night-white walls, covered in doodles and drawings we all made together. I remember the main clock was drawn by Emma, while Paul¡¯s and my ¡°drawings¡± are off to the side, almost erased by now. "A fine masterpiece." A sigh escapes. I step inside, and the bell tied to the door jingles. "German, I came to do my hours." "Oh, my boy, Ethan, listen¡ªyou have two jobs today. One is for Mr. William, the clothing shop owner. His watch broke. And then¡­ we have a special case." "A special case?" "A military man brought his watch here." "Why would someone from that sector come here?" "He came asking for Rom¨¢n. Said someone recommended him. I suppose the news didn¡¯t spread enough, or not many knew Rom¨¢n." "Alright, I¡¯ll handle it." I glance at my workbench, my tools, and a note from Paul¡ªsuggesting I should set the clocks to run counterclockwise sometime just to see people¡¯s reactions. I¡¯ve never done it. But every now and then, the thought makes me chuckle. I take out the two watches from the box and start with the easier one¡ªMr. William¡¯s. That man has an annoying habit of fiddling with the crown until the mainspring comes loose. Yeah, some things never change. I reset the spring and prepare a short note for him.
"Mr. William, this is Ethan. I recommend you avoid constantly changing the watch¡¯s direction. It¡¯s fine¡ªit shouldn¡¯t break. Trust it for once. Sincerely, Assistant Ethan."
Now, the other one. A silver watch with red accents. There¡¯s an inscription engraved along the bezel: "Do not disappoint our beloved nation." "How charming." Alright, let¡¯s see what¡¯s wrong. Hmm, seems like a problem with the hands¡ªthey¡¯ve loosened slightly. I¡¯ll tighten them and replace a lug. Odd¡­ The numbers from 9 to 12 are completely worn off. Strange. I close the watch, finishing my work, and turn to ask German what else needs to be done¡ª When I hear a shout. I rush over and see German on the floor. He fell from the ladder. "German, I¡¯ve told you a thousand times¡ªstop climbing up to get things! What¡¯s the point of having an assistant if you never use him?" "Relax, Ethan. Do you know the hardest part of getting old? When someone else has to do the things you used to do without thinking." "..." "Ethan, it¡¯s time you found yourself a real job. You have a degree. There aren¡¯t many mechanical engineers around, and I don¡¯t want the only one I know to die as a watchmaker." "But¡ª" "Ethan, take your pay. Here¡¯s a small advance on your salary. Open this when you¡¯re alone. And¡­ I¡¯m selling the shop." "Because your son won¡¯t take over?" "No. Smith is an adult. He has his own life. He doesn¡¯t have to follow my steps and die in this place. And I don¡¯t want that for you either, Ethan." I look at my workbench. A frown settles on my face as I turn toward German. Before stepping out, I take a deep breath and say: "German, I want you to know¡­ you are a father to me. You¡¯ve been there for me since I was little." "Thank you, Ethan. And remember¡ªyour father wasn¡¯t absent because he didn¡¯t want to be with you. He did it for your sake. He always talked about you¡ªwhen you were born, when you took your first steps, when you spoke your first words. You were his pride." "Goodbye, German. Goodbye¡­ may Lysveria watch over you." A Wolrd that no loger feels the same The air outside feels thick. As if the entire world had changed in the last few minutes¡ªyet no one else had noticed but me. I look at the plaza. The children are still playing. The clown is still performing. The Clock Tower is still standing, unmoving. But something in me is no longer the same. When I leave the shop, it¡¯s already 8:30. "..." I walk toward the South District Plaza and watch the people¡ªthe children, the clowns, the Clock Tower. I feel like it¡¯s watching me. What will become of my life now? I have no job. Am I supposed to work as a mechanical engineer for the Empire? That would mean helping a dictatorship. What am I supposed to do? The bag in my hands feels heavier than it should. My fingers tremble slightly as I try to open it. And then¡ª TICK. ¡­? The watch is marking 12:00. Going Counterclockwise "So now you decide to move, huh?!!" I can feel the people around me staring. Maybe I yelled too loudly. I should move somewhere more private¡­ I get up from the bench in the plaza and walk toward an alley. There was no one else there¡ªexcept for a vagabond rummaging through the trash. "The watch¡­ It moved. It¡¯s marking 12:00 but¡­ why? What changed? The only thing I did was go to work, glare at the clock with disdain, insult it a little, and¡ª" "Hey, kid! If you''re not going to dig through the trash, could you move?" ¡­Hmm? To his eyes, I¡¯m just another vagabond. I lost my job, but still¡­ ¡­Ah, right. The bag German gave me. "Well, kid? You moving or what?" "Yeah. Sorry." I step back into the plaza. 8:32. I should open this bag already. I grab it and feel a familiar weight in my hands. Two pounds and ten shillings? I should ask German if there¡¯s a mistake. ¡­A letter? I take the letter out, stuffing the money into my jacket¡¯s inner pocket¡ªthe same place I keep scraps of paper and a pencil. You never know when you¡¯ll need to put your thoughts on paper. The letter is old. Its yellowed color gives it away. The bottom part is wrinkled, and it has no address. Doesn¡¯t look like it was meant to be sent through conventional means¡­ It must be from German.
I open the letter. And for a second¡ª My heart stops.
"Ethan, it¡¯s me. Roman. I know everything that has happened.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings. I know you hate me, and I don¡¯t blame you. You¡¯re probably wondering: Why is an absent father talking to his son through a letter, after all these years, instead of in person? I can¡¯t answer that here. I hope you understand. Tell Paul that I love him. Tell Emma too. The three of you are my pride. Everything I¡¯m doing¡­ I¡¯m doing it for you. If you want to ignore all of this, close the letter and burn it. Don¡¯t just throw it away. But if you want answers from this father of yours¡ª Go to this address: 27 Preston Rd. With all the love in the world, Dad."
The last part looks like he considered erasing it. What kind of father¡ªafter so many years¡ªseeks redemption in such a cheap way? He must be a fool if he thinks I¡¯ll waste another second caring about this. I crush the letter in my hands. But I don¡¯t throw it away immediately. The paper crunches between my fingers. I stand still. The ink doesn¡¯t change. The words are still there. Roman Vayne. Dad. I throw it. But I don¡¯t see where it falls. I sigh. "..." People keep walking around me. As if nothing had changed. As if the world hadn¡¯t just spun a little slower for a moment.
"Tack." "..." Maybe I should have kept that letter after all. Maybe I should wonder what I¡¯ll do now. Maybe I should ask myself how I¡¯ll move forward. And you can tell yourself, Ethan: Ignore it. And you can tell yourself, Ethan: Forget it. I start moving. Almost instinctively, toward that street. I take one last look around¡ªbefore telling myself the truth.
A man feeds the pigeons. The trash stinks in the dumpster. The vagabond digs through the remains. The restaurant is still serving meals. The factories are still spewing their smoke. The clouds continue on their path. The Tower is still there. The jester is still there.
I can feel the weight of the coins in my pocket. But I can¡¯t feel my hands. I can feel the weight of my jacket. But I can¡¯t lift my head. I can feel the weight of my boots. But my feet won¡¯t move. A child laughs in the distance. I can feel the heat. The wind. The smoke from the factories. The voices blend into a murmur. I hear laughter. I hear people arguing. I hear merchants shouting. I hear birds chirping. The jester sings. But among all of that¡­
"Tick." The world moves forward. I don¡¯t.
"Tack." The wind blows. The streets roar. I am silent.
"Tick." I should move forward too. But then¡ªwhy do I feel trapped?
"Tack." "..."
"Tick." Don¡¯t listen to it, Ethan.
"Tack." Don¡¯t listen.
"Tick." Don¡¯t.
"Tack." Only one thing, Ethan. Feel.
"Oh, so now you move, huh, clock?"
"12:40? How generous."
"Oh¡­ looks like it started raining." I didn¡¯t bring my umbrella. Maybe if I had¡­ Maybe if I had, the rain wouldn¡¯t bother me. Maybe if I had¡­ None of this would matter.
"Are you alright, young man? Are you hurt?"
"Hmm? It¡¯s just raining, that¡¯s all¡­" I stand still. Before I can move¡ª I hear the bard singing. The song of the Empress of the Third Epoch.
If not himself, then he has naught To say the things he truly feels And not the words of one who kneels The record shows I took the blows And did it my way" With my eyes raised I head towards Preston Street. 27 Preston Rd. I walk down the street. I feel and understand my surroundings. "Thump, thump."
Height: 80. A few more blocks left. The shops seem more alive in this part of the city. I spot a clothing store with tailored outfits and garments for men of high status. Not quite noble attire, but for this area, it¡¯s unusual. I scan the sidewalk, as if my answers could be found there.
Height: 40. "Thump, thump."
A.39, A.38, A.34, A.29... A.27. For some reason, seeing that number makes me feel... calm. As if it were holding me together. As if it were guiding me. As if it were inviting me in.
The place is very different from what I first imagined. It looks like an old pub. "It''s in ruins." Time has worn it down. It''s as if everything around it remained still¡ªexcept this place, which was condemned to slow destruction. There¡¯s a sign that reads "Desfile In..." but the rest is too faded to read. The entrance is blocked.
I look around, as if preparing myself to go inside. I step into the alley and search for an alternative entrance. At first, I see nothing but brick walls¡ª But after a bit of searching, I notice a broken window on the second floor. I stack a few crates and a trash can like a makeshift tower. I try to climb. Or rather, I struggle to. I reach the window and grab onto the frame. The glass is completely shattered. With some effort, I lift what¡¯s left of the frame and attempt to climb in. I take off my jacket and drape it over my arm. "I¡¯m out of shape¡­ ugh."
I look around. This seems to be someone¡¯s room. Whoever lived here had a passion for architecture. There are several drawings. One depicts the tip of a tower with a mirror. Another shows what looks like a prison. And the last one... A "sand clock?" But there¡¯s something different about it. Something palpable. As if it were holding something. Or someone.
I move forward. The door is wide open¡ª Kicked in.
There¡¯s a musty smell. But it¡¯s not unpleasant. This place feels frozen in time. As if it still held the fragments of people¡¯s lives. It doesn¡¯t feel like a bar. It doesn¡¯t feel like a business. It feels like a home.
By the bar counter¡ª Amidst the broken bottles¡ª There¡¯s a teddy bear. And a letter.
Each step I take is audible. The creaking wood assaults the silence of the room.
I descend the stairs¡ª And one of the steps gives way. I continue toward the bar. My attention immediately lands on the letter.
Nothing unusual. "Three shillings per night. Seven for a full stay. We open at 6:30 PM and close at 3:00 AM."
There¡¯s something strange. A lingering feeling. As if this place were a ghost of what it once was. Like the people had disappeared only recently¡ª But the state of the building tells a different story. A contradiction.
I open a drawer. I find some books. Most unremarkable. But one¡ª A registry.Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.
"Desfile Interconectado" Fine Ales, Hearty Meals & Comfortable Lodging Drinks: Main Dishes: Desserts & Extras:
The other paper.
"Desfile Interconectado - Tenant Registry" "A place of rest for travelers, merchants, and those who don¡¯t ask too many questions." Innkeeper¡¯s Notice:
Current Tenants
Name Room Duration Paid Status
Edward Sterling 101 2 weeks 12s Lodged
Margaret Holloway 202 5 days 6s 8d Lodged
Thomas Redford 303 1 month ¡ê1 4s Lodged
"Architect" 404 3 nights 4s 6d Lodged
Eleanor Farthingale 505 10 days 13s 4d Lodged
Roman Vayne 606 ??? ??? (See notes below)
"606¡­" "Thump, thump." I search for the notes. They¡¯re gone.
I turn toward the stairs. I glance at the bar one last time. Searching for one of those bottles. There¡¯s nothing left. A shame. It would¡¯ve made things easier.
I climb the stairs. The wood creaks louder¡ª As if warning the world about what I¡¯m about to do. Like the cry of those whose lives ended brutally in the alleys of the night. I swallow hard. A knot in my throat.
I reach the door. I exhale deeply. Like I¡¯m about to face the inevitable.
"No matter what you tell me¡ª No matter what you are¡ª The monsters of my future, or whatever you try to show me¡ª I will not change my mind."
I try to open the door. It¡¯s locked. Makes sense. I kick just below the lock. The door was already falling apart. It opens easily.
And the smell hits me.
Inside Room 606 The wind rushes in. Dust scatters. I see symbols everywhere. One of them is a clock with no hands.
A pile of papers is stacked in the corner. As if they were failed attempts. A bed¡ªunmade. And a desk. Upon it¡ªan aged paper. Dried ink.
"How much time has passed?"
I step closer to the pile of letters. I can see¡­
"My son." "Paul." "Emma." "Selene." "Children." "Wife..." "Ethan." "Forgive me..."
"Thump, thump."
"I miss you." "Me too... I miss you too."
I approach the desk. I open the drawers. Nothing¡ªexcept watchmaker''s tools. Inside¡ª A paper describing a watch:
The Nihyra Watch The design is a blend of functionality and elegance.
Watch Repair Log "I''ve tried to repair this watch more times than I''d like to admit. A beautiful, mystical watch with promising design¡ªbut no matter what I do, it gets stuck at 11:59. This is my full record of everything I attempted before accepting that Ethan may be able to find what I couldn''t."

Step 1: Initial Inspection

(Ethan, check this again¡ªI was in a rush, so I probably missed something.)

Step 2: Opening the Case

Step 3: Gear Train Inspection

Step 4: Escape Mechanism Review

Step 5: Hands & Minute Pinion Check

Step 6: Date Complication Issue

...Then stopped again.

Final Diagnosis

"I have no doubt. The issue lies within the gear train, most likely the intermediate wheel or minute cannon adjustment. But I lack the tools and parts to fully repair it."
"This watch has defeated me. After hours of work, I can confidently say the issue is in the intermediate gear or minute hand mechanism. But I don''t have the right tools. I¡¯ve done everything I can. Yet this damn watch has done what few have managed¡ªit broke me."
"Even so... I can¡¯t throw it away. I can¡¯t give up completely. That¡¯s why I¡¯m leaving it to Ethan. Maybe with his steady hands, his younger eyes, and a patience I always lacked, he can finish what I couldn¡¯t. This watch is more than just a mechanism. It¡¯s a test. A challenge. One I failed. But Ethan won¡¯t. He¡¯s better than me. He always was."
"If you ever read this, Ethan... Know that this watch is more than a pile of broken gears. It¡¯s a metaphor. A reflection of what I couldn¡¯t do for you. Something I tried my hardest to fix¡ª But I failed. Just like I failed you. The watch stops at 11:59. As if time itself had frozen before a new beginning. Maybe it¡¯s because it¡¯s waiting for you. Waiting for you to fix it. If anyone can repair it¡ª It¡¯s you. Because even though I left you, Even though I failed as a father, I always believed in you. This watch is yours now, Ethan. Not as a burden. But as a legacy. A symbol that even what seems broken beyond repair¡­ Can still be fixed. Maybe, when the watch moves again¡­ Time will move for us too. Maybe something lost can be found again. I¡¯m sorry, son. I¡¯ve always been sorry. But I know you can do what I couldn¡¯t. And when the hands finally pass 11:59¡­ You¡¯ll know. You¡¯ll know you did more than fix a watch. You¡¯ll have restored what I left behind. ¡ª Roman Vayne"
"Tack." Raindrops fall onto the letter. The ink begins to bleed. "Why are you doing this? Why now?"
"Tick."
I keep searching through the drawers. Inside¡ª A book. Stamped with the symbol of a clock with no hands. You Must Remember, Then Forget I open the book. Nothing. I flip through the pages, one after another. "Blank." I inspect every page. An absence lingers in the book. A journal? No. If it were a journal, why scatter the pages all over the room? And that symbol... There has to be something. In my attempt to find anything, I begin tearing apart the cover. "Oh." I find some hidden pages. "I am Veyne R." "The situation is not improving, but in our last expedition to the war zone, we found something. Among the ruins of a godless church, we discovered a journal¡ªbelonging to a bishop or priest. It was found next to a clock with no hands. Inside, it told the story of three people." "Then, the religious figure describes something about a ''Pathway of Time.'' I believe that¡¯s what he called it." "He also explains the process of creating something called ''Sequence 9 Vial - Watchmaker.'' Described as: "We believe this could be of use to the organization, Captain. We don¡¯t know what any of this means yet, but we can experiment with this ''Vial.'' Required Materials: Regarding the "Blood of Someone Who Has Lost Time": "We believe this refers to someone who has been in a coma or missing for years." Instructions for the Vial: "You must remember, and then you must forget." "Nowhere does it explain what will happen to the person. Nowhere does it explain the consequences. But we are out of resources, out of people, out of hope..." At the Bottom of the Report: At the very bottom of the report¡ª Scrawled in the corner of the page¡ª Barely visible. A shaky handwriting. A single phrase. No signature. No context. My fingers tense over the paper. Did my father write this? Or did someone add it later after reading the report? Why leave a warning with no explanation? Veyne R. ends his report. "Don¡¯t do it." Final Instructions: "If this does not reach the organization..." "Memorize it. Then burn it. Do not let it fall into the wrong hands." "If time is a path, then there are those who can walk it in both directions." My fingers brush along the edge of the paper. I feel as if I am holding something immensely important. "If time is a path¡­ then there are those who can walk it in both directions." My eyes scan the phrase over and over. It shouldn¡¯t matter. It shouldn¡¯t... but it does. I feel something in my chest.The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon. My heartbeat quickens. As if the words themselves have become something more before I could even process them. I close my eyes. I breathe. "Walking time in both directions..." I whisper the words. Testing them on my tongue. As if they could change meaning if I say them again. My gaze returns to the report. "You must remember, and then you must forget." I swallow hard. Remember. I can do that. I must do that.
"Fragment of a clock with no hands. Powdered crystal from a blue hourglass. Blood of someone who has lost time. A coin that has changed hands for over a century¡­"
I repeat them. One. Two. Three. Four. Do not forget. Do not forget. I look around. I must burn it. My eyes search for something to use. A matchstick. A lamp. Anything. My eyes land on an oil lamp beside the desk. I step toward it. Heavy footsteps. The sound of my boots against the wood feels... Louder than usual. As if the room itself is trying to remember this moment. I reach down. I pick up the lamp. Its glass is covered in dust. But the oil inside remains untouched. I think as I prepare to burn the paper. "What did I just read?" "Was my father really just experimenting?" "Those three figures¡ªmyth or reality?" "The ''Pathway of Time''¡­ is it more than just a name?" I push the questions aside. I tilt the lamp. A few drops of oil fall onto the paper. The smell of oil fills my nose. It reminds me of German¡¯s workshop. Of late nights, cleaning old gears, our hands covered in grease and dust. "Ethan, stop messing with that damn watch and help me with the ladder!" "German... I should go ask him about this." Or maybe¡ª "Hmm." My fingers drift to my wrist. "So your name is Nihyra, huh? Sorry for misgendering you, you little piece of junk." "2:40. If you say so, Nihyra." As I pour the oil, I recall one last time. "You must remember, and then you must forget." 11:59. A room filled with clocks. The exact moment when time freezes. A clock with no hands. I glance around. "Maybe it¡¯s not here." I grab my father¡¯s tools. Friction sparks. First, a spark. Then, a black line. The words begin to twist under the flames. The sentences vanish into ash. I do not look away. I watch every word burn. When the last embers fade, I whisper the ingredients one final time. "My father wrote all of this. And now, I¡¯m leaving it behind¡ªjust like he left me." Leaving Room 606 I search the room for the way I entered. Room 606. I take one last look at the drawings and structures. I gather the pages, fold them neatly into a square, and tuck them inside my jacket pocket. "Drawings of an architect. A dirty page. A pencil. Two pounds and ten shillings." I walk to the window and lean against the frame. I look down at the drop. Taking a breath, I jump. I land on the trash can, tumbling over the stacked crates. "Luckily, I didn¡¯t break anything." I reset the crates, moving the trash can back to its place. I step out of the alley and glance around. Then, I walk. The streets feel different. Or maybe it¡¯s just me. I head toward the watch shop. As I reach the plaza, I spot the jester. Surrounded by children. What is he doing now? At first, he was singing a forbidden song. And now¡ª "Once upon a time, there was a kingdom greater than the Imperium. Far greater than any empire of today." "It was so prosperous that even the gods trembled with envy. A kingdom that covered the sands, the forests, the jungles, the savannas, the seas. A kingdom so vast, that even continents beyond its borders wished to become part of it. But one day, it all crumbled. Not because of betrayal. Not because of war. Not because of failure. But because of its king." "Lies come at a price, children. Remember what I¡¯m about to tell you." "For its glory was never real. Everything it built was a lie." "It did not conquer with strength, but with deception. It did not forge alliances with honor, but with cunning. It did not win battles with power, but with tricks and manipulation." "It was said that his tongue was sharper than any sword. That his promises were more valuable than gold. And that his kingdom was the most prosperous in history." "But¡­" "He deceived everyone. He deceived his people. He deceived his generals. He deceived his wife. He deceived his children. He deceived his blade. He deceived his allies. He deceived his own blood." "And, most importantly¡ª" "He deceived himself." "He thought he could deceive even the gods. That he could trick fate itself." "But fate is a harsh judge. And the gods do not forgive cheats." "The kingdom he built on lies collapsed in a single night." "His people were massacred. His family vanished into the darkness. His palace, reduced to rubble." "But do you know what remained, children? Can you tell me?" "His jewels?" "Hmm, maybe. But I seek something deeper." "His ruins?" "Yes, but that is not what I¡¯m looking for." "Him." "Yes." "That is the lesson of this tale, children. The most painful truth." "He is still there. Among the ruins of his own deceit." "With a mane of red, like the flames of the war he ignited himself. With golden armor, now rusted by the passing centuries. With an immense sword, heavy¡ªjust like the weight of his sins." "He is not trapped. He has not been punished. He chooses to remain." "For the worst punishment is not exile. Not death. Not vengeance." "It is memory." "He forces himself to remember. He does not want to forget. He cannot forget." "Because if he forgets¡ªhis kingdom will have truly died. And if his kingdom dies¡ªThen all his deception will have been for nothing." "He does not hate the gods. He does not curse them. He does not defy them." "Because he knows they were just. Because he knows his fate was inevitable." "But he does not seek redemption. He does not seek forgiveness. He does not seek revenge." "Because if he had to do it all over again¡­ He would. Because the lie was his only truth." "Is he still alive?" "No one knows." "Some say he was condemned to wander the ruins of his kingdom. Others say he died centuries ago, but his shadow still lingers." "But there are those who whisper that¡­ If you find the ruins of his kingdom¡­ If you walk through its dead streets¡­ If you step into his empty throne room¡­ You will see him there." "Seated. Upon his broken throne, covered in dust. Holding his sword, as if waiting for something." "And when you look into his eyes¡­ You will see a man who has lived centuries with an unbearable truth. A man who had everything, lost everything, and still¡­ refuses to let go." "Because that is his trial. Because that is his destiny." "Now, children, do you understand why lying is wrong?" "Yes!" "And with that, this tale has come to an end." I would have said that before. But now... Now, I only hear the story of a man who had everything. Who lost everything. And who still clings to a lie. What if I¡¯m building a lie, too? What if I¡¯m nothing more than a man, waiting in a throne of ruins, holding a clock with no hands? Emma used to tell us this story whenever Paul and I would sneak out at night to eat cookies. Back then, it was just a story. Now¡ª It feels like it¡¯s telling me something. Something I don¡¯t want to hear. Reaching Bracquemont Street, I take a deep breath. Only a few more blocks until I reach German. But then¡ª A voice. "Hey, you¡¯re Ethan Vayne." The sound of my name hits me like a bullet. My body tenses instantly. It can¡¯t be. Not this fast. Have they already found me? I turn around, slowly. Forcing my body not to panic. The man standing before me does not have the casual stance of a patrolling officer. This is not a coincidence. His eyes scan my clothes, my face. They pause for a fraction of a second at my wrist. At my watch. He blinks. Almost imperceptible. But enough. For the first time¡ªThe thought settles in my mind. He may not be just a policeman. I feel every muscle tense. "Yes, officer." I pause before responding. I do not look away. "Why do you ask?"