8 Past 10 and the Gate in the Roots

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No one knew exactly how many librarians the Aether Library counted. Some said eight, others spoke of an infinite number. The only thing that was certain was that each of them had a clock within them, connected to time itself. And yet, it happened that one fell out of step. "8 Past 10," the others called him, for his chest clock always remained fixed on this moment, no matter how the hours passed. While the hands of his brothers and sisters followed the rhythm of the world, he was trapped in a single beat, a blink of eternity. One evening, as the fog crept over the aisles of the Aether Library and the shadows began to whisper between the volumes, 8 Past 10 stumbled deeper into it than he should have. He followed a rustling sound like pages being opened and suddenly found himself standing in front of a wall of roots. An opening in the ancient wood yawned before him—a gate not listed in the catalogs. Curiosity was a rare but not unknown trait among Clockwork Librarians. So he stepped through. On the other side, not a hall full of books stretched out, but a silent cemetery. Gravestones rose from the sandy ground like silent sentinels, and orange lilies grew at their feet, so bright they seemed like little torches in the twilight. 8 Past 10 blinked its large glass eyes. "This is not the reading room," it murmured in its low, tinkling voice. A breeze blew through the crown of the World Tree, from whose roots the gate had sprung. There was a whisper, as if the earth itself were speaking: "Lost time is only found where no one is looking for it." The little librarian shivered, though he had no flesh. He stood upright, turned the cogwheel of his chest—but the hands remained unperturbed at 8 Past 10. Forever late, forever out of sync. A figure appeared among the graves: not human, not a shadow, more like an outline in the mist. In its hand, it held a bunch of keys that clinked like glass stars. "You don't belong here," the figure said gently. "And yet you've come." "I'm lost," replied 8 Past 10. "My watch doesn't show me where to." The misty figure nodded slowly. "Perhaps, little watchman, you shall not return home as before. Some clocks stop so that others can continue." Confused, but at the same time filled with a strange courage, 8 Past 10 followed the misty creature through the rows of stones. Every name on the gravestones flickered as if they were chapters someone had forgotten. And the librarian sensed: These were stories that had fallen out of time, that no one read anymore. He raised his small hands, and all by themselves, the gears within him began to hum. The epitaphs glowed softly, as if his presence were awakening them. Then he understood: He wasn't just a Lost One—he was a collector of forgotten hours.