Tiktora and the Cards of the Fleeting Hour

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The wind carried a hint of dust and forgotten time when Tiktora awoke in the library of the sealed wing. She hadn't truly fallen asleep—not in the sense that humans sleep. But sometimes her thoughts slipped into loops from which she only awoke when the world demanded something outrageous of her. Today, it was the rustling of the time cards. The cards floated through the air like sparks, golden and fragile, as if made of memory paper. Each bore a fragment of a moment, finely intricately inscribed with writing that only became visible when remembered. And in the midst of their dance stood Tiktora, her cogs whispering, her bronze clock face suffused with a warm glow. The large minute hand twitched as if to emphasize a point that hadn't yet been thought of. "You're too early," she murmured, extending the metal fingers of her right hand. One of the maps lowered hesitantly, like a bird unsure whether to land or vanish. She didn't read it with her eyes. Tiktora read it with the inside of her clockwork. The map showed a fragment: a lost hour, once stolen from the life of an old cartographer who could never explain why a certain sunset remained alien to him. Tiktora remembered. She had once repaired his time anchor—an act that required more than mere knowledge of gears and pendulums. But now something was different. The maps no longer seemed to show mere lost moments. They were searching for someone. No—something. They were fleeing. From whom, Tiktora didn't know, but she could sense it: someone was collecting forgotten minutes to build something out of. Something unnatural. Something that didn't want to tick, but flicker. A humming sound vibrated through the wood of the shelves. Behind her, the light from the gas lamp flickered, though there was no breeze. She turned, and there he stood: the forger with the silent crown. A being of reversed seconds, a shadow emerging from the cracks of unspoken stories. "You're late, Tiktora," he whispered. "I already have 47 minutes. Thirteen more—and the hour is mine alone." Tiktora took a step forward, the cards now circling her like fireflies. Her voice sounded like the first tick of a freshly wound clock. "An hour belongs to no one alone. It belongs to the moment that fills it." The forger laughed. It was the laughter of blank paper. But Tiktora had more than just cards. On her back, she carried the satchel containing the key to the hour—an instrument that worked only in silence. She reached for it, and when the noise of the past subsided, she turned it once to the right. The cards paused. The library breathed a sigh of relief. And suddenly, the forger disintegrated into flickering wisps—not destroyed, but thrown back into the shadows from which he came. Tiktora sighed softly. The cards sank gently to the ground, and she gathered them, one by one.