Chapter 0: The Last Winding
The last human who knew regret was not a king or a philosopher, but a clockmaker. And today, he wound his final clock.
His workshop smelled of brass filings and lamp oil, the air heavy with dust that glimmered like fading constellations in the half-light. Rows of unfinished clocks stared down from the shelves—pendulums stilled, hands frozen in place, as though each one had chosen to stop breathing. Only the newest creation, perched on his workbench, moved.
It was not a handsome clock. Its wood was plain, its glass cloudy, its gears imperfectly cut. Yet when it ticked, the sound was not of time passing, but of time being written. Each strike of the escapement carried weight, as though the world beyond the window rearranged itself in obedience.
The clockmaker leaned closer. His hands trembled, veins stark against his thin skin, as he touched the crown with reverence. He wound it once, twice, three times—each turn echoing through the workshop like thunder swallowed by velvet. The clock answered him with certainty: tick, tock, tick, tock.
He closed his eyes. The ticks stretched into whispers, soft voices carried through the teeth of gears. He heard names he had never spoken, tragedies not yet endured, and joys too sharp to survive remembering. He saw his own face reflected in the glass pane—lined, weary, and marked by the faintest shadow of fear.
The hands pointed to an hour he had not yet lived. Beneath the dial, where no eye should have read, an engraving glimmered: "Final Breath." The hands were moving toward it, steady and without hesitation.
The clockmaker pressed his palm flat against the casing, as if to silence the truth inside. But the tick continued, each beat a heartbeat he could not control.
Outside, rain began to fall against the window. The city slept. The world moved unaware.
Inside, the clockmaker whispered, "So it begins."
And the clock ticked on.