The Hourwurz and the Keeper of the Jars Deep

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In the heart of the misty green, where even the wind only whispers and moss creeps over stones like memory, stands a tree that preserves time. Its trunk is gnarled and old, crisscrossed with vines and moss, but in its center chimes a clock—large, golden, warmly glowing like a rising sun. It is called the Hourwurz. No one knows exactly when this tree began to count time. Some say it once grew from a lost bell; others believe a forgotten hour formed it when it no longer had anywhere to fit. But one thing is certain: within it dwell the hours themselves—collected, guarded, preserved in jars of golden glass. And before this tree, day after day, night after night, sits the Keeper: a small gnome with a long white beard, a rust-brown coat, and a cap like a fiery flame. His name? Few know it. Some call him Nidobohr, others Glass Listener – but he prefers to be called simply the “Time Gnome.” Nidobohr is no ordinary gnome. He doesn’t guard treasures of gold or silver, but fleeting moments. In each of the glasses next to him shines a piece of lived time: the first smile of a child, the flutter of a butterfly’s wing at sunrise, the tingle of a brave decision, or the warm shadow of a farewell that never fully fades. He knows what they sound like, these moments. Every note, every light within them has its own melody. When someone wanders sadly through the forest, believing all is lost, a certain glass flickers. Nidobohr picks it up, holds it up to the light of the big clock, and listens. Then he murmurs: “Ah, there it was – the moment when you were completely yourself for the first time.” And he gives it back. But not every hour is simply given away. Some remain sealed forever. They are the not-yet-lived ones—delicate sparks on the top shelves, so light they flicker when you breathe. They belong to those who will yet dare. In this hour, between seven and eight, something strange happened: a glass at the very bottom began to glow of its own accord. Nidobohr squinted his eyes and stood up slowly, his back creaking like old wood. "This is new," he murmured. "Old and new at the same time." Something danced in the glass that looked like an old children's song, remembering the way home. It was the time of a hope that had never been fulfilled, but never quite forgotten. "Ah," said the gnome softly. "It has returned." He didn't open the glass. Not yet. Some hours must wait. Not for their watch—but for the courage of the one who once lost it. Then Nidobohr sat down again. The great clock continued to tick, steady as a heartbeat. And between the glasses, possibility shone softly.