Mystery
The cold, metallic air smells of ozone and rust, a scent that has been the constant companion of my thirty years aboard the Argo. I call this vessel a ship, but it is just a drifting tomb now, a colossal, dying sphere of metal suspended in the void. My entire life is measured by the silence of its failing systems and the slow, agonizing count to this single, crucial moment.
Maya had always been a light sleeper, but lately, she’d been waking at exactly 3:17 AM every night. Not 3:16, not 3:18—always 3:17. Tonight, instead of lying there staring at the ceiling, she decided to follow the strange pull she felt toward her window.
In a quiet town nestled between mountains, there was an old clockmaker named Elias. His workshop was small, filled with the scent of oiled wood and the soft tick-tock of countless clocks. Each piece he made was flawless, but what set him apart was something no one knew: Elias’s clocks didn’t simply tell time—they stored memories.