The golden light grew brighter as they walked, breaking into a scatter of smaller glows. Lanterns, Elara realized — dozens of them, each one hanging from a different kind of clock. Some were tall grandfather clocks, their faces glowing like moons. Others were little pocket watches, dangling in midair, swaying as if in a breeze Elara couldn't feel.
The path widened into a circle. Here, the clocks underfoot ticked audibly, though their hands spun far too quickly to make sense.
At the center sat a wooden bench. It looked impossibly ordinary — worn planks, chipped edges, one leg shorter than the others so it rocked slightly when someone sat down. The older woman lowered herself onto it with a sigh.
"Sit," she said.
Elara did, keeping the journal in her lap. Her eyes were on the lanterns. The light they gave off was warm but… not quite right. Like it was filtered through something.
"Where does the light come from?" she asked.
The older woman's gaze followed hers. "From those who stopped walking."
Elara blinked. "You mean—"
"They're not here anymore," the woman said softly. "But a trace of them is. The Path doesn't waste what it takes."
Elara's stomach turned. She glanced at the closest lantern — a small brass one hanging from the hand of a stopped clock. The light inside flickered in a pattern she almost recognized, like someone pacing in a small room.
She looked away quickly.
The older woman leaned back, watching her. "You should sleep."
"How? There's no—"
"You'll understand," she interrupted again.
And she was right. The moment Elara leaned back against the bench, the weight of exhaustion pressed down on her, sudden and absolute. The hum of the clocks became a slow lullaby.
Her eyes closed.
Just before sleep took her, Elara thought she heard it again — that same alien voice, not in words but in the shape of thought:
One toll taken. Eleven remain.
And beneath it, almost too faint to catch:
You will not make the twelfth.
---
She was standing in her childhood kitchen when her eyes opened .
The light was exactly as she remembered it — golden afternoon spilling through the window, glinting off the glass jars her mother used to line along the counter. She could smell cinnamon and soap, hear the faint creak of the back door in the summer breeze.
For a moment, it was perfect.
"Lara," her father called from the hall.
She turned, smiling before she even thought about it. He stepped into view — younger than he'd been in her last memory of him, hair still full, smile easy. He was holding something in his hand.
It was the journal.
"Is this yours?" he asked.
She nodded. "Where did you—"
Before she could finish, the kitchen clock on the wall began to tick loudly. Too loudly. Each tick stretched a little longer, as though it had to be pulled from somewhere far away.
Her father's smile froze. The skin around his mouth twitched, like something underneath was trying to move it.
"Elara," he said again, but it wasn't his voice this time. It was deeper. Wrong.
You will not make the twelfth.
The kitchen around her flickered. The light dimmed to violet-gold, the jars on the counter turning into clock faces, their hands spinning so fast they blurred. The smell of cinnamon soured into burnt metal.
Her father took a step toward her, and now his eyes were just two clock hands, turning independently.
"Elara…" He stretched the word, letting it wind down like a spring. "…come off the path."
She stumbled back, clutching the journal. "You're not him."
The figure tilted its head — not in disappointment, but in mild curiosity, as if she'd passed or failed a test it hadn't explained.
The kitchen collapsed around her. She fell backward into a darkness threaded with ticking.
---
She woke on the bench, heart racing. The older woman was already standing, watching the path ahead.
"Bad dream?" she asked, not turning around.
Elara stood shakily. "It was the Keeper."
The woman finally looked at her. "Then it's paying attention."
---
They'd been walking for what felt like hours. The violet haze was darker now, streaked with faint ribbons of gold like cracks in glass.
Elara's steps had just begun to fall into a rhythm when the hum started again — sharper this time, like a bow drawn too tightly across a string.
The older woman slowed. "Stay close."
The sound grew until it was nearly a vibration in the air, and then—
BONG.
The second toll slammed through her body like a shove from behind. Elara staggered forward, knees buckling. Her vision pulsed black for a moment, and she felt something — a thin thread in her mind — snap.
It wasn't pain, exactly. It was absence.
When the black faded, she found herself kneeling on the path. The older woman stood over her, frowning.
"What did it take?" Elara asked, breathless.
"Tell me your mother's name," the woman said.
Elara opened her mouth. And froze. She could see her mother's face perfectly — the soft brown eyes, the laugh that always started with a sigh — but the name was gone.
Completely gone.
"I…" She swallowed. "I don't know."
The woman's expression softened, almost sadly. "The Keeper prefers to start small. It'll build from here."
The path ahead rippled — yes, ripples, like water disturbed by a stone — and shapes began to rise from it. They looked like people at first, but their edges were indistinct, their features blurring whenever Elara tried to focus.
The older woman stepped between her and them. "Don't speak to them."
"What are they?" Elara whispered.
The woman's eyes didn't leave the figures. "Those who tried to pay the toll in conversation."
The shapes began to drift closer, their mouths moving in silent rhythm. Then, faintly, Elara realized — they were speaking. She just couldn't hear it in her ears. The words were forming inside her head, pulling at thoughts that weren't meant to be pulled.
She squeezed her eyes shut and clutched the journal to her chest, letting the older woman guide her forward.
When she dared to open them again, the figures were gone.
The clocks beneath their feet slowed as they walked, the ticking stretching into uneven intervals. Ahead, the path widened again — and split.
One branch curved gently to the left, its surface made of bright, polished clock faces that reflected the violet haze like sunlight on water. The other veered sharply right, its clocks tarnished, the glass cracked in places, faint wisps of shadow curling up through the fractures.
Elara stopped. "Which way?"
The older woman didn't answer immediately. She walked a few steps forward, studying both paths.
Finally, she said, "Left is quicker. Right is safer."
Elara frowned. "Safer? That one looks like it's falling apart."
"Appearances are nothing here. The Path doesn't want you to take the route it can't control."
Elara glanced between the two again. The left path seemed inviting — almost too inviting. She could feel a warmth coming from it, a faint hum that was almost… pleasant.
The right path, in contrast, gave off no sound at all. Just silence and the faint scent of cold iron.
"Why not just take the safe one, then?" she asked.
"Because the quicker path might take you where you need to be sooner," the older woman said. "But it will cost you more, faster."
Elara tightened her grip on the journal. "So you're telling me—"
"I'm telling you," the older woman interrupted, "that whichever you choose, you live with until the next fork. There are no turning back."
Elara hesitated, looking down each path again. The polished clocks of the left shimmered, and for a heartbeat, she thought she saw her father's silhouette walking along it, head turned as if waiting for her.
When she blinked, it was gone.
She took a breath. "We go right."
The older woman's mouth twitched — not quite a smile, but close. "Good."
They stepped onto the cracked clocks. The silence deepened, swallowing the last echo of ticking.
Somewhere in that silence, Elara thought she heard her mother's voice — or rather, the hollow space where the memory of it should have been.
---
The cracked clocks made no sound beneath their feet, but Elara still felt the faint vibration of their gears deep below.
They had been walking in silence for some time when the older woman suddenly stopped. Her gaze fixed on the haze ahead.
"Don't look behind you," she said quietly.
Elara's stomach tightened. "Why?"
"Because if you do, it will know you've noticed."
Her pulse quickened. "What will?"
The older woman began walking again, slower now. "The Hollow Watcher."
Every instinct in Elara screamed to turn around. The air felt heavier, as though something was leaning close to her back. She could feel it — not touching, but occupying the exact space she would need to step into if she tried to retreat.
She gripped the journal harder. "What does it do?"
"It doesn't move. It doesn't speak. It only watches. And it waits for the toll to weaken you enough to stop walking."
The silence thickened. Elara tried to keep her breathing steady, but she swore she could hear something faint behind her — not footsteps, but a soft, steady tick-tick-tick, like a heartbeat made of glass.
She wanted to ask how far away it was, but the words stuck in her throat. Somehow, she knew the answer wouldn't make her feel safer.
Minutes — or hours — passed before the older woman spoke again. "We'll lose it at the next rest point. Until then… keep moving."
Elara kept her eyes forward. She told herself she wouldn't turn around, not even once.
And she didn't — not until much later, when the clocks beneath her feet changed again and the air shifted.
She risked a glance over her shoulder.
There was nothing there.
But in the violet haze far behind them, two faint points of pale gold light hovered exactly where they'd been walking before.
Watching.