Every morning at exactly 6:17 a.m., the clock in the old library would stop. Not just stop, but freeze—its hands locked in place, as if time itself had taken a breath and forgotten to exhale. No one could explain it. The librarian, an elderly woman named Eleanor, never mentioned it, though she always seemed to know when it happened. She would glance at the clock with a faint smile, then continue dusting the shelves as if nothing had changed. The library was tucked away in a quiet corner of town, its windows fogged with age and its floors creaking underfoot. It was the kind of place where stories lingered in the air, waiting for someone to listen. Most people didn’t come by often, but those who did swore they felt something strange—the smell of rain that hadn’t fallen, the echo of voices from another era, or the sudden chill that came without warning. One day, a young man named Leo wandered in. He was a student of folklore, fascinated by the unexplained. He had heard whispers about the library’s peculiar clock and wanted to see it for himself. When he arrived, the clock was still frozen. He stood there, staring at it, feeling the weight of something unseen pressing against his chest. “Time doesn’t move here the same way,” Eleanor said, appearing behind him without a sound. She held a book in her hand, its cover worn and cracked. “It slips through the cracks like water.” Leo asked what she meant, but she only smiled and walked away. That night, he returned, determined to investigate further. He brought a notebook, a flashlight, and a sense of curiosity that bordered on obsession. He noticed that the library changed subtly each time he visited. The books rearranged themselves, the floorboards shifted, and once, he saw a shadow moving in the corner of his eye, only to find nothing there. The clock remained frozen, but now, instead of 6:17, it showed 4:44. He wrote it down, thinking it might be a mistake. But the next day, it was 8:08. Then 12:12. The pattern wasn’t random. It was rhythmic, almost musical. Each time he came, the clock ticked forward by an hour, as if time was being measured in intervals rather than seconds. He began to suspect that the library was not just a place, but a portal—a threshold between moments. One evening, as he sat alone in the dim glow of the reading lamps, he heard a soft voice. It was not Eleanor, nor any of the other patrons. It was a child’s voice, speaking in a language he didn’t recognize. The words were gentle, lullaby-like, and they made his skin tingle. He followed the sound, stepping into a hallway he had never seen before. The door at the end of the corridor was slightly ajar, and inside, the walls shimmered like glass. Inside, he found a small room with a single chair and a mirror. In the mirror, he saw not himself, but a version of himself standing in a different time. The reflection waved, and when he stepped closer, the mirror rippled like water. He reached out, and for a moment, he felt himself slipping through the surface. Then, everything stopped. He woke up on the library floor, the clock now showing 3:33. His notebook was open, filled with notes in a handwriting that wasn’t his. He couldn’t remember writing them. There were sketches of places he had never been, names of people he had never met, and dates that didn’t exist in any calendar. Eleanor found him later, sitting in the same spot, eyes wide. She didn’t ask questions. She simply handed him a cup of tea and said, “Time is not a line, but a river. Sometimes, you can step into it, but you may not find your way back.” Leo left the library that day, but he never stopped thinking about it. He tried to return, but the doors were locked, and no one knew where the building had gone. Some said it had been demolished. Others claimed it had never existed in the first place. But every so often, when the world felt still and the air grew heavy, he would look at his watch and feel a strange pull. And sometimes, he swore he could hear the echo of a child’s voice, whispering in a language he almost remembered.