Every evening at precisely 8:17, the clock in the abandoned library on the edge of town would tick forward by exactly one minute. It was a small thing, almost imperceptible, but those who lived nearby had long since stopped questioning it. The library had stood empty for decades, its windows dark and its doors sealed with rusted chains. No one dared to enter, not even the curious children who sometimes gathered outside, whispering about ghosts and old secrets. The librarian, a woman named Eleanor, had once worked there before the town decided to close it down. She had been the only one who ever stayed past midnight, her office light flickering like a dying star through the foggy glass. Some claimed she had gone mad, others said she had seen something that made her leave without a word. But no one knew for sure, and the story faded into the background of everyday life—until the day the clock began to change. It started with a single tick. A sound so faint that most people thought they had imagined it. But then, over the next few weeks, the clock’s hands moved at odd intervals. Sometimes it would jump forward by five minutes, other times it would lag behind by two. The townspeople were divided. Some dismissed it as a faulty mechanism, others believed it was a sign of something more. A few even began to visit the library at night, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever might be happening inside. One such person was a young man named Thomas, who had recently moved to town. He was an artist, drawn to the eerie beauty of the place, and he found himself fascinated by the clock. He would sit outside the library for hours, sketching the building and listening to the strange sounds that occasionally echoed from within. One night, as the moon hung low and the wind howled through the trees, he heard a voice—soft, distant, and filled with sorrow. It wasn’t clear what the voice was saying, but it sent a chill down his spine. Curiosity got the better of him. On the next full moon, he returned with a flashlight and a notebook. He pushed open the heavy door, which creaked like a wounded animal, and stepped inside. The air was thick with dust and the scent of old paper. His flashlight beam cut through the darkness, revealing shelves that stretched into the shadows. At the far end of the room, the clock stood tall and silent, its face covered in cobwebs. As he approached, the clock began to tick again, but this time it was different. It ticked in perfect rhythm, as if counting down to something. Then, suddenly, the hands spun wildly, and the room seemed to tilt. Thomas stumbled back, his heart pounding. When he looked up, the clock was gone. In its place stood a mirror, reflecting not his image, but a version of the library as it had been in the past—brightly lit, filled with books, and with a figure standing near the desk. The figure turned, and for a brief moment, Thomas saw Eleanor. Her eyes were wide with fear, and she reached out as if trying to warn him. Then the mirror shattered, and the room fell silent. Thomas ran out of the library, his breath ragged, his mind racing. He told no one what he had seen, but the events continued. The clock reappeared, but now it always showed 8:17. People began to notice strange things—books moving on their own, whispers in the halls, and the feeling of being watched when no one was there. Some claimed to hear Eleanor’s voice calling out in the night, asking for help. No one could explain the phenomenon, and the town remained divided between those who believed in the supernatural and those who simply ignored it. But Thomas kept coming back, drawn by the mystery, by the need to understand. He began to research the history of the library, uncovering old records that spoke of a hidden chamber beneath the floorboards, a place where Eleanor had supposedly conducted experiments with time and memory. One night, he found the hidden door, its handle cold and unyielding. As he pushed it open, a gust of wind rushed past him, carrying with it the scent of lavender and old parchment. Inside, the walls were lined with mirrors, each reflecting a different moment in time. In one, he saw a younger Eleanor, smiling and writing in a journal. In another, he saw the same woman, screaming as the clock began to malfunction. Thomas realized then that the clock wasn’t just a timepiece—it was a gateway. And Eleanor, trapped between moments, had been trying to reach someone who could set things right. But the question remained: who was she trying to save? And why had she never left? As he stood in the chamber, the clock began to tick again, louder this time, as if it were counting down to something inevitable. Thomas felt a presence behind him, a warmth that wasn’t the heat of the room. He turned, but there was nothing there. Only the mirrors, watching. Waiting. And somewhere in the depths of the library, the clock ticked on, forever stuck at 8:17.