Terminus and the Last Leaf of the Hour

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The shelves of Ventrihall's library whispered softly, as if each book only breathed when no one was looking. Between papyrus scrolls, quill pens, and heavy brass astrolabes, Terminus sat on a stack of old travel logs. His copper clock face gleamed in the warm light of the dancing dust motes, while small sparks rose near him—fragments of memory, the kind that sometimes escape when someone opens a particularly old book. Terminus, brother of Tiktoria, was no ordinary timekeeper. He was a Clockling Child, born from a broken chronometer, pieced together in the Workshop of the Second Minute—a place found only by those who dreamed too soon or too late. While Tiktoria repaired memories and preserved forgotten seconds, Terminus searched for something else: the Last Leaf of the Hour. A legend among Clocklings that spoke of a page never written because it would only be written at the end of time. He had collected clues—in footnotes that circumscribed themselves, in margins where ink fades like breaths. And today... today, a golden seal flickered on the cover of a book that had previously been empty. "Annales Temporum—Index of Lost Ticks." The letters glowed faintly as Terminus ran his small index fingers over the leather. He opened it—and a breath escaped the book, like a sigh trapped for centuries. From between the pages, a tiny leaf unfurled. Not paper—but a living fan of fiber, suffused with gold, gossamer and warm as breath. It pulsed to its rhythm, precisely attuned to Terminus's small heart. A soft gong sounded in the distance—twelve times, yet no two were alike. Then it fell silent. Terminus raised the page. And in that moment, he was everywhere an hour had ever begun. He saw the first tick of an hourglass in a nomad's tent, the stumble of the bell in the clock tower of Ebrinas, the tremble of a pocket watch in a jacket left behind in the rain. But with the last page came a choice. For only one being could carry it—and with it, rewrite the end of time. Terminus stood before the mirror of minutes, which showed only what one dared to become. Behind him, shadows of moments never lived passed by. Tiktoria's voice echoed within him—calm, determined: "Not all clocks measure time. Some give it back." He lowered the page, tucked it into the gap behind his clock face—and for a split second, the world held its breath. Then he ticked on. Not faster. Not slower. But along a different line. From then on, Terminus was the keeper of the unwritten hours. And if you ever find an old pocket watch on a book in a forgotten library, waving to you as small golden leaves dance in the air—then you know he's there. Still searching. Still traveling in that hour that hasn't yet begun.