At precisely 3:03 a.m., the clocktower in Elderglen ticked backward. No one noticed except Mira.
Wrapped in the shimmer of half-sleep, she watched shadows ripple unnaturally across her walls. They pulsed, not with the randomness of headlights or moonbeams, but like breathing things. Beneath her floorboards, something whispered not words, but a language made of memory and decay.
The air thickened. The house exhaled.
Mira stepped outside, barefoot on cold cobblestones, guided by some ancient itch in her bones. The town was still, painted in static except the clocktower. It loomed, bleeding time like a slit throat.
Its door, once sealed for decades, stood ajar.
She entered.
And down the spiral she went, not knowing if the descent was vertical or existential only that the further she went, the less she remembered her name.
Or why she had ever wanted to know it.
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