Chapter 1

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 Chapter 1: The Clockmaker’s Secret


Stories exist within the pages of worn books, concealed within the passage of time, patiently awaiting remembrance. This one began with a box tucked inside the attic of a decaying Victorian townhouse in Bloomsbury—a house forgotten by most, but not by fate.

I didn’t expect to find anything that day. I was merely cataloging antiques for an estate auction. But there it was: a leather-bound journal, cracked with age, the initials “E.T.” faintly embossed on the cover. The first entry was dated April 16, 1872, written in a hand so meticulous it could have belonged to a man who measured time not just by hours, but by heartbeats.

"The gear must align with the lunar tooth—no sooner, no later. Midnight is the key. I will go to her, even if time itself breaks beneath me."
— Elias Thornwell

Elias Thornwell was a clockmaker by trade, but his writing revealed something more. He wasn’t just building clocks. He was building a portal—a time mechanism designed not for travel in the scientific sense, but for a singular purpose: to see her again.

Her name was Eleanor.

She had died the previous winter, taken by a fever that not even the most fervent prayers or potions could soothe. Elias wrote about her not like a man mourning a memory, but like a soul suspended mid-sentence—desperate for a period that never came.

As I turned the pages, diagrams began to appear—sketches of impossible machinery: gears nested within celestial rings, pendulums made to swing in lunar time, notes in the margins that read like poetry disguised as mathematics.

And then came the final entry.

“Tonight, the clock is ready. I will wind it under the blue hour. If this fails, I vanish. If it works, I find her smile once more.”
— E.T., April 21, 1872

After that, there was no further communication. There were no additional written records. There is no death certificate available. No trace. History allowed Elias Thornwell to escape its grasp.

But here’s the part I still can’t explain.

Inside the box, beneath the journal, was a photograph.

It was in perfect condition, untouched by age. It showed a man—Elias, without doubt—standing on a modern city street, surrounded by glass skyscrapers and neon lights. His pocket watch dangled from one hand, the other shielding his eyes from the sun. And in the background, just out of focus…

The individual was a woman.

She wore a long black coat. Her hair curled like memory. And her face—God, her face—was identical to Eleanor's sketch from Elias's journal.

She was smiling.

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