The Fountain of Lost Hours

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In the heart of a remote valley, where the mountains cast their shadows over endless forests, stood a clock as large as a house. It was made of black iron, its numerals glowing golden in the twilight, and its hands moving with a calmness that seemed older than the stars in the firmament. From its base cascaded a clear waterfall, plunging into the stream below, filling it with a luminous glow. The people of the villages beyond the mountains called this place the Fountain of Lost Hours. It was said that every drop of this water represented an hour missed by someone, somewhere in the world. Hours slipped away in sleep, lost in endless conversation, or vanished in thoughts never spoken. The river gathered them all, carried them through the valleys, and let them flow into the sea of oblivion. But those who had the courage to linger at the source could sometimes reclaim one of those hours—or experience a strange one that had never belonged to them. Many travelers came, driven by longing. They dipped their hands into the stream, hoping to hear the laughter of a child they had lost, or the voice of a love that had long since fallen silent. Some returned with a twinkle in their eyes, as if they had truly rediscovered something. Others, however, left the place in silence, because the water had only shown them the weight of lost time. One evening, a young woman came to the river. She was a traveler who had crossed many countries, yet she had never stayed in one place as long as she had in this one. Her gaze was fixed on the hands of the clock, which ticked incessantly onward, while the waterfall roared as if it were pouring time itself into the world. She had no name to give to others, and no one knew why her steps had led her there. As she dipped her hand into the stream, she saw images: a room full of books, an attic where sunbeams streamed through dusty windows, and an old woman whose smile was as gentle as a summer breeze. It was her grandmother, whom she had lost in childhood. For a moment, she heard her voice as clearly as if it were standing beside her. "Time given away," said the voice, "is never lost." Tears streamed down her cheeks, but she knew she couldn't hold on to the hour. The river offered no permanence; it offered only a reunion, fleeting like the light of a star disappearing behind the clouds. As the images dissolved, a quiet consolation remained. The young woman lingered until morning, listening to the ticking of the giant clock, which marched unerringly on, and watched the stream fade into the distance. As the first birds flew across the sky, she rose. With every step she took out of the valley, she felt that the time she had left was no longer a burden, but a gift.