Somewhere unreachable in Wonderland, at a time no clock dares to name…
Tick. Tock.
The sound of a thousand clocks sings through the air. It dances along wooden beams and brass gears, slips past the glass faces of old grandfather clocks, and twirls through piles of stopwatches and pocket watches stacked in a wild, wonderful mess. Their ticking becomes a grand, echoing chorus—one that almost hides the sound of two very small, very upset voices.
"Noooo! It can't be! It can't be! It just can't be!"
The door to Father Time's study bursts open with a BANG! Two tiny figures rush in like a storm on quick little feet. Tick the Minute-Hand and his sister Tock, the Hour-Hand, the clock-pixies, are no taller than a toaster—but heavens, they can be as loud as a tower full of chiming bells.
Father Time turns, his silvery beard swaying like the hands of an ancient clock. There stands Tick, face red and blotchy, clutching a giant book in shaking arms. "F-F-Father!" he cries, tears wobbling like raindrops ready to fall. "We're sorry! We're so sorry!"
Father Time's deep, creaky voice fills the room, like an old rocking chair groaning on a quiet night. "My children… sorry about what? You didn't de-synchronize yourselves again, did you?"
"No!" they shout together. "Worse! We're sorry—we read ahead!"
Father Time blinks. "Read ahead?"
Tick nods miserably. "Mr. Kringle—Santa—he—he—he—HE'S DEAD!"
With a sob, Tock hurls herself into her father's vast robe, disappearing into its folds like a kitten seeking warmth. "He was my hero!" she wails. "And now he's gone—gone, gone, GONE!"
Father Time's old heart softens. Ah, his little time-sprites, so tender, so trusting.
"Now, what have I told you about peeking ahead in the annals?" His brow crinkles, but his eyes twinkle softly. "The past cannot be hurried, my darlings. It must be read slowly, gently… page by page."
"But he dies!" Tick howls. "We saw it—he's just… gone!"
"I didn't even get to say goodbye," Tock sniffles, her tiny wings drooping.
Father Time kneels, his great hands guiding them toward the warm couch beside the golden fire. The flames flicker like the beating heart of the room. "The death of a legend," he says gently, "is never truly the end of their story. It's only the turning of a page."
"But what if it's the last page?" Tick chokes.
"Yeah! What if the book's over forever?" Tock blurts, flipping through the heavy tome as if she might stop the future itself.
Father Time chuckles, a sound like the tolling of a friendly old bell. He brushes away a tear from her cheek with the softest touch. "Ah, the final pages," he murmurs. With a practiced motion, he plucks the book from her small hands before she can spoil another moment. "They're always blank until the time is right. Time likes to keep her secrets, you know."
He dries their tears, gives their sides a playful tickle, and earns a pair of surprised giggles. Then, with a rustle of golden ribbon, he opens the annals to the waiting bookmark. "See here? You skipped right past the best parts. This is why we never read ahead, my little clocks."
"But it's true, isn't it?" Tock whispers.
"Did Santa really… choose to die, Father?" Tick asks, his voice a trembling thread of hope.
Father Time hesitates. For once, words don't arrive at the perfect second. He lifts his gaze to the starry window, where time itself seems to listen. At last, a warm, weary smile curves across his face.
"Why don't we read the story and find out… together?" he says softly. "For when we're together, even the heaviest moments are lighter."
The twins sniffle, then nod. They climb into their father's lap, curling up like two tiny pups under the glow of the fire. Father Time clears his throat and opens the great book wide.
"Let's see now… Ah yes, here we are: The meeting in the Woods of Burzee. The day the Saint made a most peculiar request…"
As he speaks, the words shimmer and glow. The light dances across the room, swirling around gears and hands and pendulums. The clocks hum, tick, and whirl, their faces spinning backward faster and faster, until the world itself seems to hold its breath.
And then—
The story begins again bringing the past in full view, into the present.
To be continued…