Legend LXXVIII – The Chronicles of the Timemaster

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It is said that in the heart of the great cities, where the noise of the world never ceases and the breath of people flows like an unsteady stream through the streets, there exists a place that no one can find, no matter how hard they try. Only those summoned by Time itself discover it: the Timemaster's workshop. Hidden behind a shop window that seems both old and new, lies a room where every tick tells a story and every clock possesses its own heart. The Timemaster was a broad-shouldered man with steady hands and eyes that saw more than just gears. In his realm, hundreds of chronometers hung on the walls like golden stars in an artificial sky. Hourglasses flickered in the candlelight, and intricate devices, whose purpose no ordinary person could comprehend, were scattered among stacks of books. Nothing in this workshop was accidental. Every tiny spring carried a meaning; every clock key opened not just a case, but a piece of the past. But the most important clock was always the one being repaired. And so, that evening, the Timekeeper sat with the boy who had knocked on his door just a few days before. The boy had wide eyes that asked more questions than his lips could formulate. He had claimed to want to retrieve a lost hour. Just one. One that was more important to him than all the futures combined. The Timekeeper had looked at him and simply nodded. For he recognized the sign: Some people lose an hour of their lives so completely that even time itself falls silent. Only those who hear this silence have the right to enter the workshop. Together, they opened an old, round case adorned with golden ornaments. The gears inside seemed like a miniature universe, in which every particle knew its orbit. The boy watched as the master inserted a tiny spring and finally asked, "Can you really retrieve lost time?" The Timekeeper smiled almost imperceptibly. "Retrieve it? No. But you can make it visible again. And sometimes that is enough." He led the boy to one of the oldest clocks in the room—a magnificent piece, its face shimmering in the moonlight. “This clock,” he explained, “preserves the memories of those who left something unsaid.” He turned a golden key, and a soft click filled the room. Then the clock began to hum a melody, gentle and melancholic. The boy froze. He recognized the song. It was the melody his mother always sang before she died. And in that moment, he understood what the Time Master meant: The lost hour did not return—but it opened. It was palpable again. And that was enough to make the wound in his heart breathe. The Time Master placed a hand on his shoulder. “Time is not a river, boy.