I almost didn’t go up.
The tower stood crooked — not dangerously, but as if it had grown tired of standing straight. No chimes. No ticking. Just an open door and stairs that creaked with memory.
I climbed slowly. There was no sense of urgency. No bells announcing the hour. No shadows shifting on the floor.
It was a place without momentum. A pause, stretched across stone.
When I reached the top, an old man sat there. He didn’t look at me. Just nodded at the space beside him. I sat.
We said nothing.
And in that nothing, I heard everything.
Footsteps I hadn’t noticed. My own breath. The sound of dust moving.
He didn’t ask why I was there. Didn’t offer wisdom. Didn’t demand meaning.
We just sat.
After some time — minutes? hours? — he handed me something: A pocketwatch. No hands. No numbers. Just a circle of warmth.
“It still works,” he said, finally. I nodded. And for the first time in a long while, I stopped checking what came next.
Sometimes, stillness isn’t delay. It’s the lesson.
And sometimes, the clock you follow… is yours.