Horatio's Codex and the Hour of No Return

More about Horatio's Codex and the Hour of No Return

As morning seeped through the high windows of the Aether Library, Horatio's Codex stood ready for travel between two shelves. His body gleamed like an old pocket watch, his red hat sat askew, and a heavy leather satchel hung at his side. But in his chest, that forgotten hour, unrecorded nowhere in the world, ticked quietly. Then Quirinius, the little brother with the sparkling wand, approached. He placed a page in his hand, its ink flickering like an unsteady candle. "It speaks of homecoming," he said quietly. "And I believe it belongs to you." Horatio remained silent. He felt the page vibrate with his inner hour, as if they were made of the same fabric. He simply nodded, carefully tucked it into his pocket, and left the halls. His path led him out into the world, along roads cracked with years, past fields that retained the breath of past harvests. The whispering of the page drew him onward until he reached a village called Fernquell. The people there greeted him with cautious curiosity. At the inn, he was told of a man who had left many winters ago and never returned. "We feel his absence like a swallowed bell," said the old landlady. "As if an hour had been stolen from us." Horatio spread out parchments and asked the villagers to sit quietly with him. "Just think of him," he said. "Time itself will write." One by one, they placed their hands next to the sheets of paper. At first, nothing was visible, then words formed as if by an invisible hand: the man's name, the tone of his song, the cloak he wore, the double tip of his hat as he left. But Quirinius's page remained blank. Homecoming, it whispered over and over. Inside Horatio, the forgotten hour beat louder, as if it wanted to emerge. He knew that if he were to release her, it could change an entire era. Then the door opened, and Tiktora entered, her clock-face glowing with the midday minute. "I sense your hesitation, brother," she said. "Let the hour strike just once. I hold the frame." Quirinius followed her, the sparks from his staff like little stars. "And I will bind the words." Horatio closed his eyes, opened the small brass flap on his chest—and allowed it. The hour struck once, silent yet powerful. The inn trembled as if an invisible bell had touched the sky. The blank page rose, and ink flowed like a stream. She wrote not of the man himself, but of the village: of open doors, the scent of stew, of voices in the evening light. She wrote the laughter, the hum of the mill, the gesture of doffing the hat—this time without trembling. At the end stood only one word, clear and still: Homecoming. The villagers wept quietly. "We don't see him," whispered the innkeeper, "but we feel that he has arrived." Horatio closed the flap over the hour, and it fell silent again.