Story from the magical forest, The House with the Root Clock

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It stands on the edge of oblivion, where paths end but stories begin. From the outside, it looks like a little house from childhood drawings – crooked, overgrown, with windows that smile at an angle and doors that look as if they were dreaming. The roof is covered in moss, and between the shingles grow small flowers that only bloom in the moonlight. But those who come closer immediately sense that time lives differently here. Inside, it doesn't tick – it breathes. Its heart beats in the form of a clock that doesn't hang on the wall, but has grown deep into the roots of the house. The root clock, as it is called, consists of intertwined veins of wood and amber, crisscrossed by veins of light that change with the twilight. The hand is no ordinary hand, but a branch that moves slowly – not in circles, but in spirals, as if following a melody that only it can hear. It measures not minutes or hours, but experiences. When someone enters the house, the clock begins to align itself with them. For lovers, it runs in leaps; for those who are sad, it drips like resin; for children, it dances. On the shelves are jars full of memories: a child's laughter that smells like warm tea; a tear that plays a song when opened; an hour that never passed, even though one so wished it would. The house takes nothing—it only preserves. Silent, gentle, like a notebook with a moss cover. Sometimes visitors sit on the creaky chair in the corner and recount their passing. Not out loud, but with glances, gestures, thoughts. And the root clock listens. When it hears something particularly beautiful, tiny leaf buds grow from the clock face, like small signs of understanding. Some of these leaves eventually detach and flutter through the rooms, landing on books, on pillows, on the shoulders of guests, as if to say: I was there. I heard you. In one corner hangs a mirror, its frame made of intertwined vines. Those who look into it don't see their face, but a moment long past—perhaps a smile, a first step, an old summer breeze. Some visitors gaze into it for a long time, others quickly turn away. The mirror doesn't judge. It only shows what you are wearing. There is a door that opens only when you can let go. Beyond it lies the Garden of Lost Minutes—a silent, luminous place where everything you have ever wasted grows in the form of delicate blossoms. Some bloom softly, others sing in faint, barely audible tones. The paths are paved with memorial stones, on which footprints appear and disappear. Those who walk through the garden feel a strange tug in their heart, as if the minutes were beckoning them. One evening, as twilight painted the sky a violet-gold, an old man entered the house. His gaze was tired, his steps slow. He sat down on the creaking chair and remained silent. The root clock began to turn very gently, the branch hand describing a particularly fine spiral.