Every evening at exactly 7:07 PM, the old clock tower in the center of town would chime, but no one could remember who had wound it last. The townspeople spoke of it in hushed tones, calling it "The Clock That Never Sleeps." No one knew when it was built, nor who had placed it there. Some said it was a relic from the 19th century, others claimed it had been there since the beginning of time. The clock tower stood alone on a quiet hill, surrounded by tall pines that whispered secrets to each other in the wind. Its brass face was tarnished with age, and the hands moved with an eerie precision, as if guided by something unseen. It never stopped, even during the worst storms or the longest nights. Mara, a young woman who had returned to her childhood home after years away, found herself drawn to the tower one autumn evening. She had always felt a strange pull toward it, though she couldn’t explain why. As the sun dipped below the horizon, casting long shadows across the cobblestone path, she approached the base of the tower. The air grew colder, and the leaves around her seemed to still, as if holding their breath. She reached out and touched the rusted gate, which creaked open without a sound. Inside, the space was dimly lit by flickering lanterns that had not been touched for decades. The walls were lined with old gears and mechanisms, some of which still turned slowly, making a soft ticking noise that echoed through the chamber. At the center stood a massive pendulum, swinging back and forth with a rhythm that matched the beat of her own heart. As she stepped closer, the pendulum slowed, then stopped. A low hum filled the room, vibrating in her bones. Mara’s breath caught in her throat. She had read about this place before—stories passed down through generations, warning of those who dared to enter after dark. But she had never believed them. Now, standing in the silence, she wasn’t so sure. Suddenly, the clock tower began to chime. Not the usual toll of the hour, but a deep, resonant sound that seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere. The pendulum swung again, faster this time, and the air grew thick with an invisible force. Mara stumbled backward, her legs trembling. The lights flickered, and for a moment, she swore she saw a figure standing at the top of the tower, watching her through the cracked glass of the clock face. She ran, her feet pounding against the stone floor as she fled the tower, leaving behind the echo of the chimes. When she finally reached the edge of the woods, she turned back, expecting to see the tower gone, or at least changed. But it was still there, unchanged, its hands frozen at 7:07. The wind carried a whisper, just barely audible, like someone calling her name. From that night on, the clock tower became a fixture in her dreams. Each night, she would see the same figure, standing silently in the shadows, watching. She tried to ignore it, to convince herself it was just her imagination. But the more she thought about it, the more she realized the figure looked familiar—like a younger version of herself, only older, wiser, and full of sorrow. One night, she returned, determined to find the truth. The gate opened as before, and the pendulum was moving again, though slower now, almost hesitant. She climbed the spiral stairs, each step echoing louder than the last. At the top, she found a small room with a single chair and a mirror. In the mirror, the figure stood behind her, smiling faintly. She turned around, but the room was empty. The mirror reflected only her own face, pale and wide-eyed. She reached out, touching the glass, and for a moment, the reflection blinked. Then, the clock tower chimed once more, and the mirror shattered into a thousand pieces. The next morning, the townspeople found Mara sitting outside the tower, staring blankly at the sky. She didn’t speak, didn’t move, just sat there, eyes fixed on the clock. When they asked what had happened, she only whispered, “It’s not the clock that keeps time. It’s the people who stop.” No one ever saw her again. But every evening at 7:07 PM, the clock tower chimes, and sometimes, if you listen closely, you can hear a voice—soft, distant, and familiar—calling your name.