The sunlight came reluctantly.
It slanted in through the uppermost panes of the clocktower's dusty windows, filtered by time-stained glass that painted the stone floor in fading strokes of blue and gold.
The chime that should have rung at dawn did not—not yet. The gears remained still above, though they pulsed faintly, like a heartbeat buried behind ribs of steel and rust.
Elias awoke on the makeshift bed of folded canvas and bundled cloth, the cold still clinging to the corners of the stone. His breath was quiet. His eyes were slow. But the moment—like every moment since the tower accepted him—was loud in its own way.
The tick wasn't audible. Not exactly. But it was there. Beneath the skin of silence. It wasn't threatening—yet it watched him, measured him. Somewhere, he knew: he was being timed.
He sat up, rubbed his hands together, and stretched. The tower didn't groan this time. It just listened.
Outside, the clouds had begun to drift westward. Another day in the city of Moraire, where fog painted everything in soft focus. A merchant cart clattered in the distance, metal wheels on stone. The world had begun again.
Elias, reluctantly, did too.
By the time he climbed down the spiral stairs to the mid-level balcony of the tower, a smell greeted him: bread. Toasted. Not fresh—but not unwelcome.
And there was Brosco, the old man of gears and oil, hunched slightly beside the stone hearth near the tower's side wall. He had a kettle in one hand, a cane balanced against the wall, and a stub of bread already buttered on the edge of the table.
"You woke," Brosco said without turning. His voice had all the warmth of a blanket long forgotten in a trunk, coarse and worn, but somehow reliable.
Elias blinked. "…You made breakfast?"
"No," Brosco muttered. "The tower did. I only followed orders."
Elias smirked, lips pulling in a crooked line. He limped forward and took a seat. "She speaks to you now, does she?"
Brosco didn't answer immediately. He poured two tin cups of whatever passed for morning tea in this part of Moraire. Then, he turned around, eyes like dulled copper, and said—
"She speaks to whoever listens."
They ate in relative quiet. The bread was crunchy, the butter surprisingly soft. The tea tasted faintly like charcoal and flowers. Outside, the fog hadn't fully cleared, and through the window, only blurred outlines of passing citizens could be seen.
"You didn't sleep much," Brosco finally said, watching Elias over the rim of his cup.
"I slept enough," Elias replied too quickly.
"Mmm. And yet your eyes say the floorboards counted your thoughts more than your dreams did."
Elias didn't answer at first. His fingers touched the side of his cup, circling it absently.
"I… I heard something last night," he murmured.
Brosco said nothing. Just sipped.
Elias continued. "Not from the outside. From above. The gears… they moved. Not loudly. Just enough. And I—" He stopped himself. "I think the tower... it was awake."
Still, Brosco didn't interrupt. He let the silence pour between them like steam off hot tea.
"And then," Elias added, voice lowering, "something shimmered. The main gear. It… glowed. Only for a moment. It was like a heartbeat."
He looked up. "Do you know what that means?"
Brosco took another long sip before setting his cup down. "You ever hear of the term temporal resonance?"
Elias blinked. "No."
"Didn't think so. It's an old theory," Brosco said, leaning back on his stool, which creaked under his weight. "The idea that time isn't a line. It's a field. And some people? Some things? They hum at a different frequency inside that field. Like plucking the wrong string on a harp—but somehow, it still plays."
Elias stared.
"I didn't see a harp," he said finally.
"Then maybe the tower did."
A beat passed. Then two.
Elias pushed back his cup and leaned forward, arms on the table. "Brosco… why did you let me stay?"
Brosco scratched his beard. "Because the tower asked."
"Don't lie."
Brosco laughed. Not loudly. It was a dry, crackling thing that didn't disturb the dust on the shelves. "I'm not. The gears hadn't moved in five years. Then you come along, muttering about needing a place, and the very next dawn—click. Like a yawn from the bones of the place."
He looked directly at Elias then. And his voice lowered.
"But if you mean why I said yes? That's different."
Elias nodded slowly. "So tell me."
There was a long pause. The kind that feels like it takes place between one tick and the next. Brosco folded his hands. His gaze didn't waver.
"You remind me of someone."
"Who?"
Brosco didn't answer immediately. Instead, he stood, groaning faintly, and walked to the open chest beside the fireplace. He rummaged, pulled out something, and returned.
He placed it on the table between them.
A pocket watch.
Its face was cracked. Its hands had rusted. But beneath the glass was etched something faint—almost invisible unless the light hit it just so.
"What time is it?"
Elias blinked.
He reached out, hesitant fingers brushing the cool surface.
"Was this yours?" he asked.
Brosco shook his head. "It belonged to the last one who slept here."
Elias went still.
"Last one?" he echoed.
"Before the tower went silent. Before the fog came thick." Brosco sat back down. "They came here the same way you did. With questions. With a past they didn't talk about. But the tower… she chose them."
"What happened to them?"
A pause.
"The same thing that happens to all clocks," Brosco whispered. "Eventually, they stop."
Elias looked down at the watch again. The crack across its face reminded him of a scar he didn't know he had.
"There's something strange about this place," he muttered.
"There's something strange about you," Brosco countered.
Elias gave him a sideways glance.
"Was that supposed to be comforting?"
"Supposed to be true," Brosco shrugged.
They lapsed into silence again. But not the awkward kind. It was the kind filled with weight—like two pendulums swinging in time with something unseen.
Elias finally asked the question he'd meant to since he woke.
"Brosco… have you ever seen someone's eye change?"
The old man paused.
He didn't answer right away. Instead, he poured a bit more tea. The steam rose slowly.
"…You mean like blindness?" he said eventually.
Elias hesitated. "No. I mean… shift. Not in color. In shape. Like a clock."
Brosco's hand stopped halfway.
There it was. The tension. The momentary tick of recognition in the air.
Elias saw it. He didn't need confirmation. He just needed to ask.
"You have, haven't you?"
Brosco sighed.
"I've heard of it."
"And?"
"I've heard it only happens… when someone chooses a moment. A Present, they call it. The moment they decide to change something that's otherwise impossible."
Elias leaned in. "So it's real."
Brosco looked at him.
"That depends," he said softly. "Are you?"
Outside, the sun had crept higher. The city below stirred louder now—bakers shouting about crusts, iron vendors clanging wares, children laughing down the alleys. But inside the tower, the clock still did not chime.
Not yet.
But it watched.
And Elias, for the first time, understood something without words.
Time was not passing him by. It was circling. Waiting. Testing.
And somewhere in the back of his mind, between the tick and the tock, the phrase stirred again:
What time is it?
He didn't know yet.
But soon… he would.