Master Gearloque and the Cogs of Memory

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In the halls of the Aether Library, where countless shelves towered like cathedral walls, lived an automaton whose interior contained more gears than entire clock factories. His name was Gearloque, and it was said that with each turning of his cogs, he could not only grasp the present but also reweave the patterns of the past. Gearloque was older than Nine O'Clock, wiser than many of his relatives. His chest displayed not just a clock face, but an entire cogwheel system that visibly pulsed to the rhythm of time. The cogs turned like a metal choir, and when he spoke, his voice sounded as if it came from the depths of a massive tower clock. His task was singular: he guarded the cogs of memory. In the library, there were books whose pages remained blank until Gearloque turned the lost thoughts of humans into them. He could capture the traces of a memory—the smile of a long-dead child, the glow of a summer night, the tear of a farewell—and capture them in small cogs. When they were later turned back in, the memories awoke anew, fresh as on the first day. One evening, when the library was bathed in golden lamplight, Gearloque heard a grinding sound inside him. Not his own cogs, no—it was a foreign cog that had jammed. Puzzled, he opened his chest flap and discovered a small, rusty cog that didn't belong to him. A faint whisper echoed within. "Don't forget me," a voice breathed. Gearloque carefully removed the cog and held it under the light. At once, he recognized it as a lost memory, one that had never properly found its way into a book. But this cog was damaged; a tooth was missing, and the gears couldn't turn fully. He knew that without help, this memory would fade, like so many others. So he went deep into the workshop of the Aether Library, where sparks danced from forges and metal springs lay lined up in rows. He searched for hours for a replacement. But no gear seemed to fit – until Nine o'clock appeared, his green eyes full of curiosity. "Master, perhaps... may I try?" asked the little boy. Gearloque looked at him appraisingly, then nodded. Nine carefully pulled a tiny spring from his own mechanism – a spare part he could spare – and inserted it into the rusty wheel. With a soft click, the gap closed. As Gearloque inserted the wheel into his chest, something miraculous happened: the memory awakened. Suddenly, they were both standing amidst a luminous image – a child sitting at an old wooden table, writing their first letter. The trembling hand, the uncertain smile, the pride in their eyes. A small, inconspicuous memory – yet priceless. "So many of these moments are lost," Gearloque murmured reverently. "And yet each one carries more weight than a thousand hands." Nine o'clock nodded seriously.