Every evening at exactly 7:43, the old clock tower in the center of the village would chime, though no one had ever seen it move. The townspeople whispered about it, but none dared to approach it after dark. It stood alone on a hill, its iron frame rusted and its face cracked, yet the hands always pointed to 7:43. No one knew who built it or why, only that it had been there long before any of them were born. Lila moved to the village when she was seventeen, seeking peace from the noise of the city. She found a small cottage on the edge of town, nestled between two hills, where the wind carried strange whispers through the trees. At first, everything seemed normal—until the night she heard the clock. It was raining, and the sky was thick with clouds that turned the world into a blur of gray. Lila sat by the window, sipping tea and watching the rain fall. Then, as if pulled by an invisible thread, she turned her head toward the clock tower. The chime rang out, soft and distant, like a voice calling from another time. She didn’t think much of it. People often hear things in the quiet. But the next night, it happened again. And the next. Each time, the chime came at 7:43, and each time, Lila felt a pull in her chest, as if something deep inside her recognized the sound. One evening, she decided to investigate. The path to the clock tower was overgrown, the grass taller than her waist, and the air smelled of damp earth and something sweet, almost like rotting fruit. When she reached the base of the tower, the door creaked open on its own, revealing a narrow spiral staircase that led upward. The steps were worn smooth, and the walls were lined with faded murals of people frozen in time, their faces twisted in expressions of fear. Lila climbed slowly, her breath shallow, until she reached the top. There, the clock loomed above her, its hands still locked at 7:43. But as she stepped closer, the room filled with a cold wind that made her skin crawl. In the center of the room, a mirror stood, its surface fogged and cracked. As she approached, she saw her reflection staring back—but it wasn’t her. The figure in the mirror wore a dress she didn’t own, and its eyes were hollow, empty. It smiled, and the smile spread across its face like a wound. Lila stumbled back, knocking over a small wooden box that sat on a nearby table. Inside, she found a collection of photographs, all of people she didn’t recognize, but each one had the same expression as the figure in the mirror. One photo showed a woman standing in front of the clock tower, her hand raised as if in warning. The date on the back was written in shaky handwriting: *July 15th, 1987*. That night, Lila couldn’t sleep. She kept hearing the chime, even when the clock wasn’t visible. The dreams began soon after. In them, she stood in the tower, the hands of the clock spinning wildly, and the people in the murals coming to life, their mouths moving without sound. They reached for her, whispering in a language she didn’t understand. Days passed, and the villagers began to notice changes in her. She spoke less, ate less, and spent more time staring at the tower. Some said she was losing her mind, others claimed she was being watched. But Lila knew the truth: the clock wasn’t just a relic. It was a doorway, and she had opened it. On the night of the seventh chime, she returned to the tower. The wind howled through the cracks, and the mirror shimmered as if reflecting something beyond the veil. She stepped forward, and the hands of the clock moved—slowly, then quickly, until they snapped to 12:00. A rush of cold air swept through the room, and the murals came alive, their figures stepping down from the walls. They surrounded her, their eyes glowing faintly. One reached out, touching her cheek. She felt a jolt, not of pain, but of memory—flashes of lives she hadn’t lived, places she had never been. And then, the mirror shattered. When she woke up, she was back in her cottage, the rain still falling outside. The clock tower was silent, its hands once again frozen at 7:43. But something had changed. She could feel it in her bones. The villagers no longer noticed her, as if she had become part of the background, like the old buildings and the forgotten paths. And every evening, at exactly 7:43, she would look up at the tower and wonder if she had truly escaped—or if the clock had simply chosen a new keeper.