Hugo of the Wurzelstock and the Clockwork of Vanishing Minutes

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It was raining as if time itself were dripping. Each drop fell with the sound of a drifting thought, and Hugo pulled the collar of his waistcoat higher, while Brummel Mossbart, as always, pulled his hat down low over his face. The path led them through an old field of ferns that bent under the weight of the wetness like a tired back. But Hugo sensed it: Something wasn't right here. The minutes felt...off. "Brummel, have you noticed how long we've been walking?" Brummel snorted. "Half an hour. Or two. Maybe since yesterday." The map they'd found in a root hollow—made of thinly peeled oak skin with lines of compressed moss fibers—showed a place not listed in any of their chronicles: "Interim vault. Access only with delay." "Well, that sounds like it was made for us," said Brummel, pushing a thick branch aside. A narrow opening opened beneath it, with steps leading downward as if sinking into the past. They entered. The passage was dry, but the air tasted of rust and old resin. Stone gears jutted out all over the walls, some crisscrossed with veins, others overgrown with cushions of moss. They stood still, like clocks waiting to count again. The room they reached was round, like a timepiece. In its center hovered an enormous clockwork—not made of metal, but of wood, amber, and root fibers. It didn't turn; it waited. And below it, in a bowl-like depression, hovered silver dots. Each glowed briefly, then vanished—with a sound like a burst thought. Hugo stepped closer and placed a hand on the transparent glass. "What... is that?" he asked quietly. Brummel stepped up beside him. "I think those are minutes. Lost." A faint ticking began. Not loud—more like a distant pulse. And then it stepped out: a being, barely larger than Hugo's arm, made up of alarm clock parts, pendulum pieces, and old clock faces. In its chest ticked a clock with only one hand—and that hand pointed at Hugo. "Are you... the keeper of these minutes?" Hugo asked. The being tilted its head slightly. Then it opened its chest. There lay a tiny wooden clock. No clock face, just a single hand, frozen. Hugo stared at the clock. A memory rose within him—indistinct, but full of weight. A minute in which he could have spoken. Could have apologized, could have asked, could have stayed. But he had hesitated. And that minute... was gone. "You can take it back," Brummel whispered, his voice heavy. Hugo closed his eyes. No, he thought. Some minutes are lost. They're like growth rings in bark—you see them later, looking back, but you can't make them grow back. He stepped back. The clock creature closed its chest, bowed slightly, and retreated into the shadows. And the clockworks—the huge one in the middle—began to turn. Slowly, barely visible.