The River of Hours

More about The River of Hours

Deep in the mountains, where the forests were dense and the nights silent, stood a clock as tall as a tower. No one knew who had built it, nor why it stood enthroned in the middle of the wilderness. But since time immemorial, a waterfall flowed from its core, clear and cool, transforming into a river that flowed through the valleys. The ancients called it the River of Hours. It was said that the water was no ordinary current. Those who drank from it felt their own time expand or shrink. Children grew into adults overnight, while old men sometimes experienced a second spring. Therefore, few dared to draw from the river. One night, a wanderer came following the stars. He was old, his hair white as snow, and he carried a lamp whose light was barely brighter than the glow of a firefly. As he stood before the clock, he heard the ticking—quiet, inexorable, like a heartbeat of the world. "So many years," he murmured, "and I still don't have enough time." His hands trembled as he reached for the water. But then, in the river's mirror, he saw not his own face, but that of a child—laughing, free, carefree. He sat down on the bank, let his fingers glide through the stream, and listened to the clock chime. Then he understood: the river didn't give extra time. It only showed what had always been within him. With a smile, he laid the lamp beside him and closed his eyes. The moon stood above him, and the river sang its song. When the morning sun touched the mountain peaks, the wanderer was gone. Only the lamp remained, now bright as a star. And so the story goes to this day: Anyone who sits by the river of hours on a silent night can see, for a heartbeat, how their own time truly flows—not in numbers, not in hands, but in the moments that the heart preserves.