The Clockmaker of Cloud Time

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The wind tasted of vanilla and distant summers as the child climbed the last step of the Cloud Stairway. Above him, planets floated like colorful soap bubbles, and between them hung a single lantern, breathing with golden light. Before the child stood a tower that seemed not built, but dreamed of—and at its heart, a massive clock turned. Its face shone like the evening sky over the sea, spirals of turquoise and gold that stretched into infinity. Beside her stood a man in a long, purple coat, his hat pointed like a comet's tail. His beard was short, but his eyes held the light of countless hours. When he raised his gaze, time seemed to stand still for a moment. "You're early," he said in a voice that sounded like warm wood. "Early for what?" asked the child, sitting down on a stone pedestal that the sun made shine like honey. The man smiled. "Too early to know you're even late." The child frowned. "I don't understand." "No one does until they've experienced it." The watchmaker placed his hand on the clock face. The glow within began to rotate, as if breathing. "Every clock measures something different, you know. Some count seconds, others heartbeats. And this one—" He nodded into the depths of the light. "—counts memories before they happen." The child leaned forward, the glow coloring his cheeks. "Can I look inside?" "Only if you're ready to see yourself." A moment of silence, then the child nodded. The watchmaker placed two fingers on the rim of the glass, and the hands began to move backward. The wind changed direction. The clouds breathed liquid pink. The light sucked them both in. They suddenly stood in a field woven with threads of light. Little clocks floated everywhere, each like a heart encased in glass. Some moved slowly, some raced through time. "These are your possibilities," the clockmaker said softly. "Each clock a path you could take. But most people never see them. They think there is only one time." The child reached out for a clock, and a small house became visible inside, a cat on the windowsill, a woman laughing. "That's my mother," it whispered. "Or the memory of her," the clockmaker replied. "Some things aren't in the past, they're just waiting to be lived." The child looked at him, its eyes shining. "Can I go there?" "No. But you can take it with you." He touched the little clock, and it melted into a spark that settled in the child's chest. Then everything began to fade. When it opened its eyes again, it was sitting on the stone pedestal once more. The clouds turned purple, and the clockmaker gently turned a gear. "What was that?" asked the child. "A foretaste of what you will one day understand." "And when will that be?"