The rain never stopped in Calvessant. It fell in oily sheets, dripping off brass rooftops, hissing where it struck the steam vents. Mira walked the cobbled streets, cloak pulled tight, eyes fixed on the clocktower that loomed over the city.

Her brother had vanished two nights ago. Vanished without a sound. The only trace, a smear of ash on the floorboards of his workshop.

She climbed the tower stairs. Every landing groaned under her boots. The gears turned above her, massive and relentless. A machine that marked time for the whole city.

But she wasn’t listening to the gears. She was listening for the whispers. She had heard them since childhood. Low voices in the metal, murmuring secrets no one should know.

At the top, the chamber pulsed with heat. Steam valves hissed. Copper pistons hammered. And there, on the floor, lay a trail of ash.

She followed it. The trail ended at the base of the great pendulum. A shadow writhed there, black and thin, clinging to the swing of the weight. It seemed to ripple against reality, almost alive.

Her brother’s voice whispered, faint, desperate. "Mira. Don’t look."

Her heart seized. She stumbled forward. "Where are you?"

The pendulum swung faster. The shadow thickened, peeling itself from the weight. It formed a shape. Vague. Human. Almost him.

She reached for it. Her fingers passed through. Cold. Burning. Both at once.

The figure leaned close. Mouth by her ear. A whisper in a thousand voices. "He isn’t missing. He’s inside. We all are."

She looked back at the pendulum. Saw faces pressed into the iron. Dozens. Hundreds. Each swing trapping another life.

The gears screamed. The voices rose. The whole tower shuddered.

And Mira understood. The clock didn’t measure time.

It consumed it.

Every second stolen.

Every life reduced to ash.

Her brother wasn’t gone. He was part of the machine, they all were.

And when the pendulum reached its apex, she knew her time was inevitable.

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