The Clock That Forgot Itself

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On the creaking wooden table, between a steaming mug of cocoa and an open book on "Forgotten Time Arts," it sat—Tiktora, the animated clock with the golden dial and a pointed magic hat hanging crookedly over one of its brass-colored ears. Its two eyes—small, round lenses of ground glass—gazed curiously at the world, as if seeing it for the first time, which was probably true. It hadn't simply been built—it had been created. Born from an erratic spark when, on that stormy night, Professor Mirlop accidentally let a pinch of memory dust trickle into it while turning the spring post of his Chronomagicon. Tiktora wasn't subject to time—she was time. A breathing, ticking, whistling being that laughed as its delicate hands did somersaults over minutes and hours. The small mechanical pointer on her forehead—erect, proud—vibrated softly. Whenever an insight fit seamlessly into the web of past, present, and possibility, it glowed amber. Now, for example. For Tiktora had just realized that "yesterday" was merely a tired joke and "tomorrow" nothing but a fleeting thought that would dissolve into stardust upon waking. She adjusted her leather backpack—an adventurously decorated container full of tiny tools, gears, and softly whirring spirals. On her brass limbs, she pranced across the table like a spider from an old childhood dream, her joints seeming to take on a life of their own with a joyful clank-clank. All around her, banknotes fluttered through the air—not from greed, but from memory. Each note was a forgotten wish, a shattered plan, a smiling error cast in numbers. The magic that moved her smelled of old inks, spilled coffee, and the laughter of people never quite forgotten. The library behind her was a still, breathing entity: tall wooden shelves, in whose shadows books rested like sleeping animals. Dust particles danced in the warm golden light that fell through a foggy window. In one corner stood a ceramic duck, half-obscured by an old map. Nothing was sharp—everything was dreaming. And Tiktora? She turned once around, giggled softly, and whispered to the room: "When no one is looking, time runs differently." Then she slid a small gear under the table leg, so that the table now rocked gently—as if it, too, were beginning to dream. So the evening passed, and perhaps time too. Or it stood still, just for a moment. Because sometimes, when the world gets too loud, you need a clock that forgets itself—to remember what really matters.