Every evening at exactly 7:13 PM, the old clock in the town square would chime, but no one could hear it. Not the townspeople, not the tourists, and certainly not the local shopkeepers who had lived there for decades. The clock was a relic from the 1800s, its face cracked and its hands frozen in place. Yet, on that specific time, the chime would sound, low and resonant, like a whisper from another world. No one knew how it started, but the phenomenon had been reported since the early 1900s. Some claimed they heard it when they were alone, standing in the empty square after closing time. Others said they felt a sudden chill, as if the air itself had thickened. But the most curious thing was that those who heard the chime never remembered what came next. They would wake up the next morning with a strange sense of emptiness, as though something had been taken from them. One autumn evening, a young woman named Clara arrived in the town. She was a writer, drawn by the stories of the silent clock. She had read about it in an old book she found in a secondhand bookstore, its pages yellowed and brittle. The book described the clock as a "portal" or a "memory," but no one seemed to know for sure. Most people avoided the square after dark, claiming it made them feel uneasy. Clara decided to stay in the town for a week, determined to uncover the truth. She rented a small cottage on the edge of the square, where she could watch the clock each night. On the first night, she sat on the porch with a cup of tea, waiting. At 7:12 PM, the sky turned a deep violet, and the wind died completely. The silence was almost oppressive. Then, at exactly 7:13, the clock chimed. It was soft, almost melodic, but it sent a shiver down her spine. She stood up, heart pounding, and walked toward the square. The streetlights flickered as she approached, and the shadows seemed to stretch longer than they should. When she reached the clock, she noticed something strange—there was a faint mist swirling around it, glowing faintly in the moonlight. She reached out to touch the rusted metal, but before her fingers could make contact, the mist surged forward and enveloped her. When she opened her eyes, she was no longer in the square. She stood in a dimly lit room with high ceilings and wooden beams. The air smelled of old books and candle wax. A man sat at a desk, writing furiously, his back to her. His name was inscribed on the desk in elegant script: Elias Thorne. She recognized the name from the book. He was the clockmaker who had built the clock in 1872. Elias looked up, surprised. “You’re late,” he said, his voice calm but firm. “I’ve been waiting for you.” “I don’t understand,” Clara stammered. “Where am I?” “You are where time forgets,” he replied. “This is the space between moments. The clock is not just a timekeeper—it’s a gateway. It holds memories, echoes of those who have come before.” Clara’s mind raced. “Why did I see this? What does it mean?” Elias stood and walked toward her. “Because you asked the right question. You sought the truth, not the fear. But be warned—each time the clock chimes, it takes something from the person who hears it. A memory, a feeling, a piece of themselves. And the more you seek, the more it takes.” He handed her a small key. “If you want to leave, use this. But know this—once you leave, you will never remember what you saw here.” Clara hesitated, then took the key. As she turned to leave, Elias called after her. “Remember, the clock only gives what it has taken. And some things are better left forgotten.” She stepped back into the square, the mist dissipating around her. The clock was still, its hands frozen. The town was quiet again, as if nothing had happened. But in her pocket, she found a small journal, its pages filled with her own handwriting, detailing events she had never experienced. The next day, she left the town, unable to explain what had happened. She wrote about it in her book, but the details were hazy, as if they belonged to someone else. The clock still chimed every night at 7:13, and the townspeople continued to avoid the square. But now, when they passed it, they sometimes swore they could hear a faint whisper, a voice calling their names, just before the chime.