Chapter 4 - Not a chapter

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In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

In the heart of Eldrenwood, where the trees whispered secrets into the ears of wandering travelers and the rivers carried songs from ancient times, lived a man who never slept.

His name was Elias Varn, a solitary clockmaker whose fingers could mend the finest gears with the grace of a pianist. In a town bustling with tailors, cobblers, and weavers, Elias stood apart—not just for his craft, but for the quiet tragedy in his eyes. He was always working. Day and night, the flickering candlelight in his workshop never went out.

The villagers often gossiped about him.

"He's cursed, I tell you," said Mavis, the baker's wife. "Eyes like that don't belong to the living."

"Or maybe he made a deal," muttered old Tavish. "You know... with them."

Everyone in Eldrenwood knew what them meant. The woods were older than the town, older than history. Some said the forest held spirits who granted wishes—at a price.

But Elias never paid them any mind. He worked in silence, building clocks that ticked with impossible precision. Some whispered that his creations could do more than tell time. That they could remember. That they could dream.

---

Elias's house sat at the edge of the forest, where wild ivy crept up stone walls and birds perched on copper pipes. His workshop was a labyrinth of gears, springs, and clock faces. The largest clock of all stood against the back wall—a towering contraption nearly ten feet tall with silver hands and symbols etched in languages no one could read. It was the only one that never ticked.

He had built it twelve years ago, the night his daughter disappeared.

Her name was Lira.

She was seven years old, with tangled curls and a laugh like bells in the spring. One moment she was in the garden, chasing fireflies. The next, she was gone—vanished without a trace. The townspeople searched for weeks. The forest swallowed their voices, returned nothing.

Elias never stopped searching. But when even the strongest hope ran dry, he turned to his tools.

They say grief turns men into monsters or legends. Elias chose the latter.

---

On the twelfth anniversary of Lira's disappearance, Elias stood before the great silent clock. A long, brass key gleamed in his hand. He hadn't used it in years. The gearwork had been complete for a long time, but the final piece—the heart of the machine—had always been missing. Until now.

It had taken him a lifetime to craft.

The key slid into the slot at the base of the clock. He turned it once. Then again.

Nothing.

Then, with a groan like mountains shifting, the clock began to tick.

One.

A sound like a distant bell echoed through the room.

Two.

The hands moved—backward.

Elias stepped back. Shadows lengthened. The air thickened, as if time itself were holding its breath.

From the workshop window, he saw the sky shimmer. The trees outside leaned toward his house like curious spectators.

Then came the voice.

It wasn't Lira's.

"You have built a door."

Elias turned slowly. The voice came not from the room, but from inside his mind. It was layered, like dozens of whispers speaking in unison.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"We are the Timekeepers. You have summoned us."

The air pulsed. Dust lifted from the floor in spirals.

"I want her back," Elias said. His voice cracked.

"You built the key. You opened the gate. But all things borrowed from time demand a price."

Elias didn't flinch. "I've paid more than enough."

"Not yet."

Then, silence.

The workshop darkened, as if night had fallen all at once. The great clock's hands spun wildly, then stopped.

The room changed.

Where workbenches once stood, now grew tall grass. Where the window had been, now stood trees. Real trees. Old trees. The smell of pine and damp earth filled Elias's lungs.

He stepped outside—and found himself not in Eldrenwood, but in a place beyond time.

---

The sky above was a deep violet, stars swirling like golden fish in a great, dark ocean. Trees glowed faintly with veins of silver. A narrow path stretched ahead, lit by floating orbs.

Elias followed it.

He walked for what felt like hours—yet his legs did not tire. Time here obeyed different laws. He reached a clearing, where an enormous sundial stood. Around it were twelve statues, each bearing a different expression: joy, sorrow, fury, fear.

In the center was a girl.

Lira.

She looked the same as the day she vanished—except she didn't move. Her eyes were open, but unblinking. Frozen, like a memory stuck in place.

"Lira?" Elias whispered.

As he stepped forward, the statues turned their heads toward him.

"She is caught in a Moment. You must choose which one to free."

The voice again.

He looked around. Each statue wore a different emblem on its chest—a clock hand pointed in a different direction.

"Choose?" he asked.

"You may retrieve one moment. But one only. The others will be lost."

Elias's breath caught. Was this a test? A trick?

He studied the statues. One wore a smile identical to Lira's. Another had tears. One held a feather. One bled from the eyes. What did they mean?

His hand hovered over the statue with the feather. He remembered a day when Lira had found a dove with a broken wing and stayed up all night tending to it. She had cried when it flew away. That day had been full of kindness and pain.

His hand moved to the smiling statue. He remembered her seventh birthday—candles, music, the clockwork pony he had built for her.

But if he chose wrong… what would become of the others?

"You delay. Time does not."

He clenched his fist.

"I want the day before she disappeared."

The voice was silent.

The statue at the far end—one he hadn't seen before—cracked.

Then shattered.

Light burst forth, blinding him.

He closed his eyes.

And when he opened them—

He was in his garden.

Lira was chasing fireflies.

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