The Town Where Clocks Don’t Tick

The attic was colder than she remembered.

Dust motes swirled in the pale shaft of light spilling through the small round window, catching on old boxes, cracked frames, and the faded edges of forgotten things. Mira hadn't been up here since she was thirteen back when her mother was still humming in the kitchen and the clocks in Isurun hadn't stopped ticking.

She climbed the creaking stairs slowly, Lucan just behind her. He didn't speak, just looked around with quiet reverence, as if the space itself might wake and tell its own story.

"There," Mira said, pointing to a slanted wooden shelf against the wall.

Tucked between a worn map of Isurun and a yellowed copy of The Children of Moonrise Hill was the book.

Whispers of the Grove.

It was her mother's favorite. A strange, dreamy novel Mira never liked too slow, too strange. But her mother had once said it held answers, hidden in plain sight.

She blew the dust off the cover. The violet was still pressed between the pages, delicate and purple, just like the one in the locket.

Lucan crouched beside her. "Ready?"

Mira nodded and turned to the marked chapter.

⸻

Chapter Thirteen: Where the Mirror Splits

"There is a moment just before time forgets you, when everything sharpens. The trees lean in. The air stills. The clock, if it were working, would hesitate. And then just then you remember the way home, and realize it was never yours."

The words were familiar and yet new, like she was reading a message sent directly to her.

The next page was different handwritten. Not printed at all.

Her mother's script.

Mira, if you're reading this, then you've started to remember. The truth isn't hidden in the past it's buried in your blood. You are more than a daughter. You are a keeper. And what you're meant to guard is waking up.

Mira stared, her breath catching.

The locket is the first key. There are two more. One lies beneath the velvet roots. The other in the place where the town forgets itself, Go there. But do not go alone.

Lucan leaned closer, reading over her shoulder. "Velvet roots," he murmured. "That sounds like"

"The Labyrinth," Mira finished. "But we were already there."

"Not deep enough, maybe."

Mira turned the page again. It was blank. No more words. But something slipped from between the pages a photo. Black and white, blurred at the edges. Her mother, younger. Smiling. Beside her, a boy.

Mira frowned. "That's not my dad."

Lucan squinted at the image. "Wait, that's my house behind them."

They both went still.

"Lucan," she said slowly, "how long has your family lived here?"

He looked unsettled. "I don't know. My mother said we moved here when I was a baby. But there are photos of me in Isurun before I was even born."

The attic seemed to contract around them.

"What if we didn't come here?" Mira whispered. "What if we were… called?"

Before he could respond, a sudden crash echoed below.

They froze.

Another crash. A drawer slamming. Then a voice.

Faint, Male,Drawling.

"She's found the book. The girl's waking up."

Lucan shot to his feet.

"Not here," Mira whispered. "They're not supposed to be here."

Footsteps now heavy, deliberate. Coming up the stairs.

Lucan grabbed her hand and pulled her toward the far wall, where a loose board covered a crawl space behind the chimney. Mira didn't ask how he knew it was there. Some instincts ran deeper than memory.

They ducked inside, pressing back into the shadows just as the attic door creaked open.

A figure stepped inside. Mira could only make out the shape tall, angular. Dressed in something that shimmered strangely in the dim light.

The stranger moved slowly, lifting the book from the floor where Mira had dropped it. He thumbed through the pages, pausing at the blank ones.

And then he said something that froze Mira's blood.

"She's only found one key. The others must be retrieved… before she remembers the door."

Lucan's hand tightened on hers.

The man lingered another moment, then turned and left as silently as he'd come.

They didn't move. Not until long after the last footstep faded.

Mira turned to Lucan. "I need to find the second key."

Lucan nodded. "And we need to find out who that was."

Mira looked down at the photo again.

Only now, the boy beside her mother was smiling.

And he looked exactly like Lucan. 

The photo trembled slightly in Mira's hand, though the air around them had grown still again, eerily so. She stared at the boy beside her mother. The resemblance to Lucan wasn't just similar it was unmistakable.

But that couldn't be right.

"This can't be you," she said, holding it up to the dusty light filtering through the attic window. "This photo looks decades old."

Lucan leaned in, his brows drawn together. "My mother has one like this, actually. It's in the drawer with the birth records. I always thought it was her cousin or something."

Mira stared at him. "Lucan what if you've been part of this longer than you realize?"

He exhaled, glancing around the attic as if the walls might offer answers. "It's possible. I've always felt out of place here. Like… the town forgets me when it can."

Mira tucked the photo carefully back into the book, her fingers lingering on the edges of the pages. "You heard what that man said, didn't you? About the keys. About the door."

Lucan nodded. "And the way he said it like he wasn't just talking about a door in a house. More like, a boundary."

Mira's voice was barely above a whisper. "Do you think he meant the door in the Velvet Labyrinth?"

"Maybe. Or maybe there's another one we haven't seen yet."

Mira stood and walked to the attic window. From there, she could see the tops of the trees in Hollow Grove swaying gently, even though she couldn't feel the wind from here.

"I used to think my mom was just sad," she said quietly. "But maybe she wasn't grieving. Maybe she was guarding something."

Lucan didn't answer, but she heard him shift behind her, felt the weight of his attention.

"When she disappeared," Mira continued, "they said she probably wandered into the woods again. That she couldn't handle the pressure of being alone."

"But maybe she was pulled back," Lucan said, "into whatever this is."

Mira turned to him. "I think the locket didn't just lead me to the book. It's trying to awaken something."

Lucan's eyes narrowed, thoughtful. "You mean like a memory?"

She nodded. "Or a gift."

Just then, from somewhere below, came a soft, repetitive ticking sound.

They froze.

Tick.

Tick.

Ticktickticktick.

Lucan was at the door in a flash, listening. Then he turned to her.

"The clock," he said. "It's ticking again."

"But that's impossible," Mira said. "It hasn't moved in years."

They rushed down the attic steps, the sound growing louder, more urgent. The grandfather clock in the hallway the one that had been silent since the week her mother vanished was awake.

Its pendulum swung.

Its hands trembled.

And then it struck.

DING.

DING.

Three times. Then one more.

Mira's stomach flipped. "3:17," she whispered.

Lucan stared. "Same as the clocktower."

As they watched, the clock's face flickered. For a split second, Mira saw something behind the glass like a reflection of a room she didn't recognize. A circular room. Walls of stone. And something gleaming in the center, like metal or bone.

Then the vision vanished.

And the pendulum stopped.

Mira stepped closer and placed the locket against the clock's wood.

Click.

A compartment slid open in its base something no one in her family had ever known about.

Inside was a small velvet pouch.

Lucan took a cautious step back. "Is that…?"

Mira opened it.

A key.

Silver, ornate, shaped like a vine curling around a clock hand.

But there was something else in the pouch a scrap of paper.

She unfolded it.

The door opens where time forgets. When the three are together, the path will light. But be warned: every keeper must choose between memory and self. You cannot have both.

Mira looked at Lucan. "Two more keys. One beneath the velvet roots."

"And the other," Lucan said, "where time forgets."

They stood in silence for a moment, the key glinting in her palm.

Mira thought of her mother, of her disappearance, of the voice in the tree.

Of the man who'd been in the attic.

And then soft and sudden the wind outside began to howl.

Like something ancient had stirred.