Every evening at exactly 7:07 PM, the old clock tower in the center of town would chime, but no one could hear it. The townspeople had long since stopped questioning it. They simply kept their windows closed and avoided the square after dusk. But for a few, the sound was more than just an echo of time—it was a whisper from something else. Mara had moved to the town five years ago, seeking solitude after her mother’s death. She found a small cottage on the edge of the woods, where the air smelled of damp earth and forgotten things. The locals were polite but distant, and she never learned why they avoided the clock tower. She only knew that every night, when the clock struck seven, she felt a chill run down her spine, as if something unseen was watching her through the trees. One day, while walking through the square, she noticed a man standing near the tower. He was dressed in a tattered coat, his face half-hidden by a scarf. He didn’t move, didn’t speak, just stood there as if waiting for something. Mara hesitated, then turned away. But the next night, he was there again, and the third, and the fourth. Each time, he seemed to watch her more intently. On the seventh night, she finally approached him. “Who are you?” she asked, her voice barely above a whisper. He didn’t answer. Instead, he reached into his coat and pulled out a small, silver key. He handed it to her, then turned and walked into the woods without another word. The key was cold, even through her gloves. It had no markings, no label, just a smooth, unbroken surface. That night, Mara couldn’t sleep. She held the key in her hand, feeling its weight like a secret she wasn’t ready to uncover. When the clock tower chimed at 7:07, she heard it—clear and loud, like a bell ringing in her skull. She followed the sound, her breath shallow, her heart pounding. The key fit perfectly into the lock of the tower’s base, a door she had never noticed before. Inside, the air was thick with dust and the scent of old wood. The walls were lined with clocks, all frozen at 7:07. Some were broken, others still ticking, but none showed the correct time. At the center of the room stood a mirror, large and ornate, its frame covered in ivy and rust. As she stepped closer, her reflection didn’t match her movements. Her eyes were wide, her mouth open, but her image remained still. Then, slowly, the reflection turned its head and smiled. Mara stumbled back, knocking over a nearby clock. It shattered, releasing a cloud of tiny gears and springs that scattered across the floor. She ran from the tower, her breath ragged, her mind racing. That night, she tried to burn the key, but it wouldn’t catch fire. She buried it in the garden, but the next morning, it was gone. No trace, no sign of where it had disappeared. Days passed, and the man returned to the square each evening, always at 7:07. But now, people began to notice. A few claimed they saw shadows moving behind the clock tower, or heard whispers in the wind. The mayor ordered the tower sealed, but the locks refused to hold. And every night, the chime rang, though no one could explain how. Mara started to dream of the tower. In her dreams, she walked through endless corridors filled with mirrors, each one showing a different version of herself—some older, some younger, some not human at all. One mirror showed her standing beside the man, smiling as he handed her the key again. Another showed her trapped inside the tower, the clocks surrounding her, all set to 7:07. She began to believe that the tower wasn’t just a place, but a threshold. A point between worlds, where time didn’t flow the same way. The man was a guide, or perhaps a guardian. And the key? It was meant for someone who had already crossed the line. One night, she returned to the tower, determined to find the truth. The door was open, the key lying on the ground as if waiting for her. She stepped inside, and the moment she did, the world around her shifted. The air grew colder, the walls pulsed with a faint glow, and the clocks began to tick in unison. In the center of the room, the mirror stood taller, clearer. As she looked into it, she saw not her reflection, but a doorway. Behind it, a forest stretched endlessly, the trees swaying in a wind that didn’t exist. The man stood at the edge of the doorway, his face now visible—older, wearier, but familiar. “Did you really think you’d escape?” he said, his voice echoing from everywhere and nowhere at once. Mara opened her mouth to speak, but no words came. She reached for the mirror, and as her fingers touched the glass, the world dissolved. When she awoke, she was back in her cottage, the key in her hand. The clock tower was silent. No one remembered hearing it ring. But in the days that followed, she noticed things—small, subtle changes. A shadow that lingered too long, a whisper in the wind, a clock that ticked a second slower than it should. And every night, at exactly 7:07, she heard it. Not the chime, but a voice, calling her name.