Every morning at exactly 5:17 a.m., the old clock tower in the center of town would chime, but no one could remember who had wound it. The townspeople called it “The Whispering Clock,” though they never spoke of it openly. It stood alone on a hill, its rusted gears and broken hands frozen in time, yet somehow still ticked with a strange, rhythmic pulse that echoed through the streets. Mara had moved to the town two years ago, drawn by the quiet and the promise of solitude. She rented a small cottage at the edge of the woods, where the trees grew so close together that sunlight barely touched the ground. The neighbors were friendly enough, but they always seemed to avoid answering her questions about the clock tower. When she asked, they would just smile and change the subject. One evening, as the sky turned a deep violet, Mara decided to take a walk toward the clock tower. The air was thick with the scent of damp earth and something faintly sweet, like burnt sugar. As she approached the hill, the wind picked up, carrying with it a low, humming sound that wasn’t quite a voice, but close enough to make her shiver. She reached the base of the tower and looked up. The structure was ancient, its stone walls covered in ivy that clung like fingers. A single window was cracked open, revealing a dark interior. Inside, the floor was littered with dust and old newspapers, their headlines dated over a century ago. But what caught her attention was the clock itself. Its face was cracked, but the hands were moving—slowly, deliberately, as if guided by an unseen force. She stepped closer, and the ticking grew louder. Then, without warning, the clock struck 5:17. The sound was not a chime, but a hollow, metallic groan that reverberated through the hill. Mara stumbled back, heart pounding, and turned to leave—but the path behind her had vanished. In its place stood a narrow bridge made of blackened wood, leading into the fog that had appeared out of nowhere. She hesitated, then took a step forward. The bridge creaked beneath her weight, and the fog thickened, swallowing the world around her. When she finally reached the other side, she found herself standing in a field of white flowers that glowed faintly in the dark. The air was still, and the only sound was the soft rustling of the petals as if they were whispering secrets. In the center of the field stood a woman, her face obscured by a veil of silver thread. She turned slowly, and Mara saw that her eyes were empty, like polished glass. The woman raised a hand, and the flowers bent toward her, forming a circle around Mara. “You’ve come back,” the woman said, her voice echoing from all directions at once. “You always do.” Mara tried to speak, but her voice was gone. The woman stepped closer, and the flowers began to swirl around them, creating a vortex of light and shadow. The woman’s veil slipped slightly, revealing a mouth that didn’t move as she spoke. “You don’t remember, do you? You were here before. And you will be again.” Before Mara could react, the world spun, and she found herself back at the base of the clock tower, the wind howling around her. The clock had stopped, its hands frozen at 5:17. The path behind her was gone, and the field of flowers had disappeared. She ran home, breathless, and locked the door behind her. That night, she couldn’t sleep. Every time she closed her eyes, she heard the ticking of the clock, and every morning at 5:17, she woke up with the same feeling—that she had been somewhere else, and that she would go back. Weeks passed, and the town changed. The clock tower became more prominent, its presence felt in every corner of the town. People began to notice things: clocks that ran backward, shadows that moved when no one was there, and the occasional flicker of a figure in the mist near the hill. Mara started to see the woman in her dreams, always standing at the edge of the field, watching. One night, she dreamt of the bridge again, and this time, she crossed it willingly. The flowers bloomed brighter, and the woman smiled for the first time. “You’re ready now,” she said. Mara opened her eyes and found herself sitting on the edge of her bed, the room silent. The clock on the wall read 5:17. She looked out the window and saw the clock tower, its hands still frozen, but the air around it shimmered, as if something was trying to escape. She never left the town again. Some say she still walks the hills at night, searching for the bridge, or waiting for the next time the clock strikes. Others claim that if you listen closely, you can hear her whispering in the wind, telling stories of places that never existed and people who never died. But no one ever finds the field of white flowers.