One Picture One Story Week #102

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In the village of the Multan the tower of the clock had stopped working. Fifty years ago yet every night exactly at midnight. A soft ticking echoed through the empty streets. Raima had grown up hearing the rumor. The clockmaker had vanished one stormy night leaving only a note that read “Time has many secrets.”

The curiosity pulling at raima. So she armed with a lantern and a notebook. She decided to climb the tower. The spiral stairs were steep. The each step creaking under her weight. When she reached the top. She saw the massive clock face. The hands frozen at midnight. But the pendulum swung silently in midair.

Then Raima noticed a small drawer at the base of the mechanism. Inside of the lay a tiny golden key with a folded piece of parchment covered in the strange symbols. When she touched the key. The room shivered. It is like the time itself had exhaled. Then suddenly the hands of the clock began to move backward.

The scenes from the past around raima. The children playing in the streets. The carriages racing down cobblestone paths. The clockmaker hunched over his workbench. But then the future appeared. The buildings she had never seen the people she didn’t know. The key in her hand seemed to control it all.

Her heart raced. Could she change the events? Could she fix the mistakes long forgotten? But when the hands swung faster. Maira realized something terrifying. The more she altered. The less certain her own present became.

With a deep breath she made her choice. She returned the key. She letting the clock run its course. The echoes faded. The pendulum slowed. She stepped out into the quiet town. She carrying a secret only she knew. The clock was alive. So was its story.

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