Every morning at exactly 6:07 a.m., the old clock in the town square chimed twice, even though it hadn’t been wound in years. No one could remember when it had last been fixed, but the sound still echoed through the cobblestone streets like a whisper from the past. The townspeople had grown used to it, though some swore they heard something else beneath the chime—a faint, almost musical hum that only lasted a second before vanishing. Mara was new to the town, having moved there after her mother passed away. She found the place quiet, almost too quiet, with an air of forgotten memories hanging in the air like dust. The people were kind, but they never asked too many questions about where she had come from or why she had chosen this small, unremarkable town. One evening, as she walked home from the market, she noticed a small, weathered bookshop tucked between two other stores. The sign above the door read "Elias & Son’s Curiosities." The windows were fogged with age, and the door creaked when she pushed it open. Inside, the scent of old paper and incense filled the air. Shelves lined with books, trinkets, and strange artifacts stretched into the shadows. The shopkeeper, an elderly man with silver hair and eyes that seemed to hold secrets, looked up from his desk. “You’re new,” he said, not as a question but as a statement. “I am,” Mara replied. “I just moved here.” He nodded slowly. “Then you’ll hear the chime soon enough.” She frowned. “What chime?” “The one that isn’t supposed to be there.” He smiled faintly. “It’s been ringing for over a hundred years, but no one knows why.” Curious, she asked to see more of the shop. As she wandered the aisles, she found a journal tucked between a collection of antique keys and a glass jar filled with what looked like dried petals. The cover was cracked leather, and the title was barely visible: *The Clockmaker’s Lament.* Intrigued, she opened it and began to read. The entries were written in an elegant hand, detailing the life of a clockmaker who had once lived in the town. He spoke of a peculiar clock that he built for the town square, one that was meant to mark time perfectly. But something went wrong. The clock started to chime at odd hours, and its sound carried a strange melody that made people feel uneasy. The final entry was dated the day the clockmaker disappeared. He wrote that he had realized the clock was not merely a machine—it was a vessel, a gateway. And now, it was calling to someone. That night, Mara dreamed of the clock. It stood in the center of the square, its hands spinning wildly, the chime echoing through the empty streets. She felt a pull, as if the clock was trying to reach her. When she woke, her heart pounded, and the room was colder than it should have been. Over the next few days, the chime became more frequent. Sometimes it would ring at midnight, sometimes during the afternoon. People began to talk, some saying it was a sign of bad luck, others claiming it was a message from the past. Mara started to investigate. She returned to the bookshop, but the shopkeeper was gone. The door was locked, and the shop was empty, as if it had never existed. She searched for any record of Elias & Son’s Curiosities, but the town’s archives had no mention of it. One night, she stood in the square, watching the clock as it loomed in the darkness. At 6:07 a.m., it rang again. This time, the sound was different—clearer, more deliberate. She stepped closer, and the air around her thickened, as if time itself was bending. Then, from the shadows, a figure emerged. It was the clockmaker, his face aged beyond recognition, his eyes hollow but knowing. He spoke without moving his lips, his voice echoing inside her mind. “You’ve heard the call,” he said. “Now you must decide whether to answer.” Before she could respond, the world around her blurred, and the clock’s chime grew louder, filling the space between reality and something else. She felt herself being pulled, not by force, but by choice. When she opened her eyes, she was back in the square, but everything was different. The buildings were taller, the streets wider, and the people wore clothes from another time. The clock still stood, but now it was whole, its hands steady, its chime resonating with purpose. She turned, and the clockmaker was gone. In his place stood a younger version of herself, looking back at her with a knowing smile. And the clock chimed again.