Nick wandered down the street, sweating—midday heat pressed on him like a weight. The sun blazed with all its might, and he felt like an egg frying on a skillet. Hopping from shadow to shadow, he did his best to avoid the worst of it. Still, he preferred this blistering sun over the freezing cold of the last city.

  After what felt like hours—but had only been thirty minutes—Nick finally reached the shop.

  It stood inside an old stone building, worn but dignified. A stunning memorial caught his eye: a carving of a mighty warrior locked in combat with a one-eyed beast. It resembled Odysseus battling a cyclops, bold and heroic. The entrance was marked by a medium-sized spruce door with tinted windows, and above it hung a simple sign: Frank’s Clockshop.

  When Nick stepped inside, he froze in awe.

  The shop was filled wall-to-wall with clocks. Pocket watches, wristwatches, towering grandfather clocks, even delicate cuckoos—all ticking in harmony. Most were crafted from polished wood or gleaming steel, blending seamlessly with the shop’s warm, rustic interior. The air itself seemed alive, pulsing with a rhythm—tick, tick, tick—as if time were a living entity present in every corner.

  At the back of the shop, a wooden path led to a small counter. Nearby, stairs ascended to a second floor. As Nick approached the register, an elderly man slowly descended the staircase.

  “Hel—lo, how are you?” the man asked in a sing-song rhythm.

  “Fine, fine. You?” Nick replied.

  “Happy to have a customer. Not many these days, not with all the mass-manufactured garbage flooding the market,” the man said, chuckling wearily.

  Nick nodded politely, slightly uneasy. He hadn’t expected a deep conversation. But then, something drew his eyes downward—not to the man’s shadow, but to something else.

  His light. His essence. It pulsed—no, it ticked—in perfect sync with every clock in the room.

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  The realization was both beautiful and unsettling. Sixty years working with clocks… and the man had become one himself. He had merged with what he loved. A living metronome. Not quite dead. Not fully alive. Saturated in time.

  Nick murmured, half to himself, “What does it mean...?”

  “Everything alright, sir?” the living clock asked.

  “Oh—sorry. I lost myself in the perfect unison of ticking.”

  “Ah, you noticed. Every clock in here is exact. Every second counts. I made sure of it.”

  “You’re a true master,” Nick said, sincerely.

  “Thank you,” the man replied, pleased.

  Nick explained his plan—a gift for someone special. Though the Clockmaster was slightly disheartened that Nick didn’t want a clock, his face lit up when Nick added, “Actually… I’d also like to buy that beautiful blue watch over there.”

  The man’s eyes sparkled as he began to explain.

  The watch was carved from dark oak with a reinforced steel back. Its face was set with lapis lazuli, deep blue and sparkling like a night sky. Delicate engravings of blue flowers adorned the case, each one slightly different—hand-carved, one of a kind.

  Nick bought both the watch and the clockmaker’s glasses. As he stepped out into the street, something caught his attention—a noise, like rhythmic shouting.

  A riot was approaching.

  Dozens of figures marched in unison, chanting. Their words rang down the cobblestone road like a storm. It was a language Nick barely understood, but he caught the essence. A translation formed in his mind:

  Fire, ash, new life!Burn it down, let it quake.Conceal it, the plague must decay.We will never hear your lament.Fire, ash, new life!We must return ourselves.We are the disease.We are humanity.Fire, ash, new life!Nature, grant us your blessing.Let us all rise again.Let us walk a new earth.Fire, ash, new life!Just like ash becomes new—Our bones shall crumble.

  Nick stood still. Was this their solution? Not to cure humanity—but to eradicate it?To destroy everything? The good, the evil… even the in-between?

  No. That couldn’t be the answer.

  He clenched the pair of glasses tightly, handed the Clockmaster his money, and turned away.He wouldn’t return. Not here. Not again.

  They may have seen the problem—but those who can’t rebuild without first burning the world to ash will never uncover the truth.