Breglio and the Time Traveler

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The fog above the old clockwork ramp tasted of oil and rain. Breglio placed his sooty lantern on a pillar; the glass was blind, the flame small but steadfast. Its light illuminated gears that sparkled in the darkness like muted suns. "You're too early," said a voice, deep and soft, like a bell that hadn't rung for a long time. From the shadows stepped a man, tall, wrapped in a cloak over which ran delicate symbols: tiny numbers, constellations, circling arrows. His eyes reflected the lantern as if they held a second light. Breglio snorted softly. "I'm rarely too early. Too curious—more so." "Curiosity," replied the stranger, "is a calendar without end. I am a traveler, not a messenger. I seek seams in time." He looked sharply at Breglio. "And you carry a light that not only shows, but notices." Before Breglio could find an answer, the ground vibrated. A humming sound like a thousand tiny springs rose, and between the arches a gate opened—not made of stone, but of ticking. Beyond it lay Fennbirn, but twisted: doors bore clocks, all the hands stubbornly pointing to the same minute, and the people hurried as if they themselves feared they would have to disappear. "A badly sewn hour," murmured the traveler. "The city has been limping ever since." Breglio felt his lantern stretch, as if it, too, were listening. "Show me where it breaks." They walked through the strange setting of Fennbirn. At one corner loomed a statue: a child with a lantern. The face was smooth and smiling—a distorted image of Breglio, softened and harmless. "That's you, but without pain," said the traveler. "A shadow that hurts no one. Therein lies the knot." Breglio placed his lantern next to the statue and removed the glass. The flame now stood free, thin, defiant. A gust of wind carried the sound of a choked cry. He followed the sound into a narrow alley where a door stood, full of notches, as if someone had been counting marks. Behind the door, a woman sat at a table. In front of her was a key, a clock without hands, and a closed book. Her gaze was like fog that wouldn't budge. "She's waiting for something that won't come," murmured the traveler. "Or she won't let something go," said Breglio. The woman whispered, "I took an hour when everything could have been different. I held her until she died." Breglio placed the lantern before her. "Hours don't die. But whoever holds them becomes sick. Tell her she may go." With trembling hands, the woman opened the book. The pages were blank, but the trace of writing shimmered at the edge. On the clock without hands, a gossamer shadow appeared—the shadow of a minute.