Tiktora and the Lost Minute

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In a small library, hidden between the chapters of time, lived Tiktora—not an ordinary clock, but a clock with arms, legs, polished brass glasses, and a pointed magician's hat that never sat quite straight. Its clock face was its heart, its hands its breath, and in its backpack, it carried the tools with which it repaired time. One rainy morning, as the sun rose late and the books murmured on the shelf, Tiktora noticed something strange: a minute was missing. Not just a forgotten second or a lost moment—no, a whole, complete minute had vanished. Between 7:58 and 7:59, there was a gap. Its hands twitched nervously. "This can't be happening," she murmured, reaching for her small lantern, whose light was made of collected dawns. Then she pulled her hat down over her face, zipped up her backpack, and set off. The lost minute could have taken only one path: the Path of Slipping Moments. It led her through the paper forests of Discarded Notes, past the clocks with broken springs, to a door made of pressed calendar pages. Beyond it began the Chronosphere. In the center of the Chronosphere, on a floating timewalk, stood a strange merchant. He wore a coat made of torn calendar scraps, his eyes ticking like pendulums. Before him: a stack of luminous moments, neatly lined up. "Ah, Tiktora," he snarled. "You're looking for the lost minute?" "I need it back," Tiktora said calmly. "Oh, but it was a bargain! Snatched by a time thief. Paid for with a promise." Tiktora blinked. "A promise? Whose?" The merchant grinned. "From you, my dear clockwork. Back when you first ticked backward, you made a promise to one day face time itself." A shiver ran down her gears. She remembered. Back then, in the great library of minutes, she had ticked backward to save a child from a forgotten morning. And in doing so, to draw time's attention. "Where is the minute now?" The merchant pointed upward. In the dark clouds, a wheel turned, its spokes sparkling with small points of light. One of them was missing. "You must go up," he said. "But be careful: whoever defies time always loses something." Tiktora took a deep breath. Then she flexed her springs, set the hands to midnight, and jumped. Higher and higher, until she reached the spoke. There hung the minute—small, shining, trembling. "Come back," Tiktora whispered, holding out her hand. The minute hesitated. Then it slipped into her fingers, warm as a newborn thought. But at that moment, Tiktora heard Time's whisper: "A trade." She looked at her left hand. Her small second hand was gone. "You took, so you give," it whispered. Tiktora nodded silently. She returned. As she put the minute back into her clockwork, she felt a small part of her ticking more slowly. But time was flowing again. And when the rain stopped outside, she knew: Some minutes cost more than you realize. But they're worth it.