The Traveler of the Hours

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The alleys of London lay silent under the pale glow of the gas lamps. Fog drifted through the streets as if it wanted to swallow every sound, to trap every trace of life in a secret silence. With a firm step, the man moved through the twilight, his coat collar turned up, his hat pulled low over his face. The suitcase weighed in his hand, heavy as a burden, yet indispensable for the journey ahead. He reached the square where a strange construction sat: a clockwork mechanism, larger than any grandfather clock, wedged between two house fronts as if it had always been there. Golden numerals shimmered in the haze, and within the clock face, no hand turned—instead, a vortex of blue light pulsed, threatening to engulf the night. The man stopped for a moment. He knew there would be no turning back. The invitation had been too clear: "When the hour strikes 13, step through, and you will find the answer." Slowly, he placed his foot on the cobbled path that led directly into the clock's interior. The stone floor did not lie on the city's floor, but stretched like a narrow walkway into the void, into the swirling heart of time. A dull rumble vibrated as the mechanics awoke. Gears the size of towers meshed in the background, as if the clockwork itself were trying to readjust reality. He took a deep breath, then continued on. With each step, the world shifted around him. The city's facades became shadows, and new contours emerged from the vortex: towers with pointed roofs, walls of black stone, streets that disappeared into infinity. It was a city he knew and yet did not know—an echo of London, shaped from forgotten centuries. A cold wind gusted through his coat as he reached the center of the vortex. Suddenly, the sound of the clockworks fell silent, and there was a silence so profound that even his breathing sounded strange. A figure rose before him, little more than a shadow, but its contours recalled himself: hat, coat, suitcase. A reflection that smiled without moving its lips. "You're late," it whispered, and the voice sounded like the echo of all his past decisions. "But time doesn't wait." The man nodded silently. Words would have changed nothing, explained nothing. He knew that this moment was the touchstone, that he had to meet the Other in order to move forward. The reflection reached out its hand. In the palm lay a key—small, made of bronze, but with a weight that could not have come from metal alone. Hesitantly, the traveler took it, feeling the heat of the metal as if it had just been plucked from a flame. With the key, a door, its frame made of gears, opened amid the whirlwind.