The Clock in Her Chest

More about The Clock in Her Chest

The Aether Library was no ordinary place. Among the towering shelves that stretched into infinity, only those who sought more than knowledge walked—they sought understanding, questions that answered themselves, or stories that had never been written. In the midst of this space of time and pages stood Tessarion. Her form was made of blackened brass and chiseled gears. Within her chest beat not a pump, but a clock—an ancient device whose hands only moved when a truly new question was asked. For eighty-four years, they had stood still. Until this foggy morning, a young figure appeared: Elara, a novice in script magic. She wore a wide, cream-colored cloak and an oversized wizard's hat that hung askew over her forehead. In her hand, she held a parchment that seemed like breathing light. It changed with every step, each new line pulsating as if it were writing itself. Elara stopped before Tessarion. She held the parchment between them without speaking. The robot librarian inclined her head, and something in her amber eyes began to glow. The clock in her chest—a round dial with Roman numerals and a gold hand—jerked forward once. "You bring a question," Tessarion said, her voice like the sound of bells on old metal. "And it's old. So old I'd almost forgotten it." Elara nodded. "I found it in an interlude. Behind the column of a poem that was never finished." Tessarion's gears hummed. "Say it." Elara whispered, "What happens to the words we never speak?" A low throb rippled through the floor. The shelves breathed. The clock in Tessarion's chest struck once, then again. A small flap opened in her metal shoulder, and from it fell a tiny book—black, with a silver spiral on its cover. "This book contains answers that have never been spoken," said Tessarion. "Yet it demands a price." Elara shrugged. "What?" "You must give a memory. The first story that ever made you wonder." The young witch closed her eyes. An image appeared before her: a smoldering evening, a fireplace, her mother's ragged voice telling of dancing starfish. The smell of soot and honey. And the childlike certainty that anything was possible. Then she let go. The black book opened. The pages fluttered like wings, and words rose—not written, but felt. Elara read: