Ten Ten and the Shared Minute

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In the quiet corridors of the Aether Library, where the sun's rays fell in golden streaks through high windows, stood an automaton whose chest bore a clear clock face. The hands pointed unerringly to ten ten, as if recording time in one perfect gesture. They called it simply Ten Ten. Ten Ten was younger than Gearloque, yet more mature than his cousin Nine O'Clock. He bore the same luminous gaze, the same green cap, yet there was something thoughtful in his expression. While Nine liked to scurry through the shelves and Tiktora had made it her mission to collect lost minutes, Ten Ten was a keeper of shared moments. Sometimes it happens that a minute doesn't belong to one person alone. Two people share it—a smile in passing, a chance glance in a train window, a shared silence at a grave. Such moments were fragile, like thin pieces of glass, and they shattered easily. Ten Ten had learned to gather these moments when they threatened to shatter into fragments. That day, he felt a tremor in his clock face. It didn't come from within himself, but from the world beyond the library. He placed his hand on his clockwork, closed his eyes, and immediately a narrow crack opened between the shelves. A silvery thread led him out, past the reading rooms, into a chamber no visitor had ever entered. There he found them: two half-minutes that had separated. They lay like shards on the floor—tiny shards of light, flickering, wanting to disappear. Ten Ten knelt down. "You belong together," he murmured softly, his voice a gentle creaking of gears. "Why did you separate?" But the shards didn't answer. They slid apart, as if afraid to become one again. Ten Ten stretched out both hands and placed them between them. Immediately, he felt the images: two people who had met on a bridge. One had offered a smile, the other the courage to look back. But the next moment, the opportunity had passed, and the minute had split. Ten Ten knew he had to be careful. He took one half in his left hand, the other in his right, and slowly brought them together. At first, they bridled, but as his clock face lit up, he heard a barely perceptible click—the same sound when two gears finally mesh. The minute merged. A pure, warm light filled the room, and for a brief breath, it was as if the two people were looking at each other after all—beyond time and space, preserved in the silence of the Aether Library. As the light faded, Ten Ten smiled. His work was done. The minute was whole again—and would rest on the shelves until one day, someone opened a book and discovered the small, precious sense of connection within. Back in the halls, he met Tiktora. She tilted her head, her clock face full of quiet appreciation. "You've learned what it means to carry a divided minute. It's heavier than a lost one—but also more precious." Ten Ten nodded seriously.