The Forgotten Hour

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Time doesn’t pass only in hours and days but also in shadows—shadows of those we don’t let go and of those who remain to remind us of what we have forgotten to be.

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   The silence of the night began to settle like a thick fog over the old house, and each object seemed to come to life under the faint glow of the moon. The house rose like a relic of a bygone era, with cold, cracked walls, like dry veins preserving the echo of those who had once lived. The windows, covered in thick dust, were its dead eyes, no longer looking outward, but inward, into the shadows preserved in silence. In the corners, heavy cobwebs hung like forgotten veils at a wedding of shadows, an unsung ritual between it and those who had come before.

   The stairs wound like a heavy wooden sigh, each step seeming to murmur buried stories. Once, these hallways had been filled with footsteps and laughter, but now, the only sound was the faint creak of the walls, like hearts turned to stone that refused to beat. It was a house that kept all seasons in a dead time, a place that remained suspended between night and day, between life and an icy stillness.

   In every room, there was a forgotten breath, cold and heavy like an unspoken prayer, trapped in the body of that old house. The furniture, covered with thick layers of dust, stood motionless, like petrified witnesses, and from the ceiling hung silent chandeliers, like skeletons of light. Every corner hid a story, a gaze, a faint echo, and the walls sometimes seemed to vibrate as if murmuring names that had no one left to speak them.

   The clock sat deep in the darkest corner of the room, tall and somber, like a mute witness to times gone by. Its wood seemed carved from the night itself, with rough grooves that seemed to tell stories of long-past years. It was covered with a patina of darkness and dust, like an old mantle from a forgotten realm, and its face, hidden beneath a cracked glass, stared like an eye frozen in time, cold and piercing.

   Its hands were two long, sharp daggers, slicing the silence in jerky movements, endlessly, each minute a reopened wound. The sound of its ticking was deep and grave, a prolonged sigh, like an iron heart that refused to stop, despite the weight of the years. Its ticking rolled through the air like a metallic sigh, burdened by the weight of an untold story, an echo of lost centuries.

   In the middle of the clock's face, a small, barely visible symbol appeared beneath the thick layer of dust—a mysterious symbol, a mark of ancient witchcraft, like a seal guarding the entrance to another world. The clock didn’t just measure time; it was an altar of shadows and memories, a silent guardian of an occult bond, preserved for those who dared to listen. Each deep tick seemed to carry a call, a silent invocation waiting for a living heart to answer.

   The girl stepped slowly into the inherited house, and the old floor creaked under her weight, as if it recognized the steps of a stranger from long ago. She felt the cold air wrapping around her skin, like an invisible embrace from the lingering shadows. Despite the heavy silence hanging around, something seemed to call her, a muted hum that seemed to pass through the walls like a chilling breath.

   Her gaze drifted toward the clock in the corner, that sentinel of shadows, and a strange sensation enveloped her. Its ticking seemed to call her, a deep sound, pulsing slowly, like a hidden heart inviting her to discover the story buried beneath layers of dust and past years.

   She didn’t remember ever seeing the clock before, though the house had belonged to her family for generations. She approached slowly, caressing its cold wood and feeling, as if from another time, a faint warmth, a faint echo of past touches. Her eyes locked onto the mysterious symbol in the center of the face, barely visible, but pulsing under her gaze like an old wound.

   The clock hands moved in a stilted rhythm, and the girl felt herself lost between the beats of that mechanical heart and her own breath. She heard her voice as a distant echo: “Why are you calling me?” But the clock responded only with a deep tick-tock, like an unspoken prayer, a call that only she could hear.

   Looking around, the house seemed to envelop her in an unnatural way, as if each shadow took shape after her own, a tribute to those who had come before. At the top of the dusty staircase, she saw an old, cracked mirror. Approaching it, she discovered that the mirror did not reflect her face but a pale, strange one—a woman with disheveled hair, looking at her with deep sadness and a pain that felt familiar.

   A whisper broke through the depths of the silence: “Blood calls to blood.”

   The girl felt her heart tighten under the weight of those words. At that moment, she understood that this house, that clock, and that shadow were bound by something deeper than time—a story, a bond that only she could decipher.

   In the back room, where the moonlight barely reached, the girl felt the floor tremble beneath her steps. Something was drawing her to the darkest corner of the room, where an old wardrobe stood, covered with a thick layer of dust. Approaching, she noticed one of the floorboards was slightly raised. With slight hesitation, she knelt and lifted the board, discovering a small, delicate box wrapped in thick, time-worn fabric.

   Unwrapping the fabric, she found an aged silver locket, engraved with that same familiar symbol from the clock. At the touch of the cold metal, she felt a faint vibration, a strange emotion, like a memory that wasn’t hers but pulsed within her. Opening the locket, she found an old, faded photograph of a young woman with piercing eyes and disheveled hair, looking directly at her with an intensity that pierced her soul. On the back of the photo, written in elegant handwriting, were the words: “For the one who comes after me: my blood is also your blood.”

   The girl felt those words weigh heavily on her, like a promise she didn’t understand but couldn’t shake. It was as if that woman had been waiting for her all along. The locket seemed to be a key, a symbol of a forgotten bond, and she understood that something awaited her in that dark clock—a truth she would discover only at midnight when time and shadows would intertwine.

   The girl stood with the locket clenched in her hand, feeling the room around her grow colder and the shadows seem to take shape, drawing closer like strange presences. Every tick of the clock became a dull echo that carried her deeper into the story of the woman in the locket. In a silence almost impenetrable, the girl felt a chill down her spine, and for a moment, the world around her seemed to dissolve.

   Fragments of the ancestor’s life began to appear, like ghostly projections around the room. The girl saw the woman, young and beautiful, leaning over an old spellbook, summoning shadows and speaking to them in desperate whispers. She was trapped in a world of pain, a world where her own dreams had mingled with the curses the others had cast against her.

  Then, the scene changed. The woman was surrounded by villagers with torches, their faces contorted in anger and fear. In their eyes, she saw the desire for revenge, and she, trapped in the center of the crowd, raised the locket, chanting words that seemed to intertwine with the darkness. But that dark magic she tried to use against them turned back on her. A shadowy figure appeared in the clock she always wore, capturing her in a curse, sealing her spirit between hours and shadows, between the relentless tick-tocks that tormented her without mercy.

   “This curse has made me a prisoner of a time that knows no death…” whispered the woman’s voice, reverberating through the entire room, as if even the walls murmured it. “To free me, you must enter the darkness of the clock and bring me back to the light.”

   The girl felt the air grow colder, almost freezing, and the ticking of the clock overwhelmed her senses. Each second passed like a blade through her being, a signal of the bond that kept her trapped between two worlds.

   “What sacrifice must I make?” the girl asked, her voice hoarse with emotion and fear.

   The shadows around her came to life, swirling, dancing around her, like a dark ritual. In their background, she saw those same twisted villagers’ faces, calling to her, mixed with the woman’s face, her intense gaze, and desire for revenge. Then she understood that the only way to free her was to take on her pain, to live her end, to become a shadow herself.

   “When the clock hands meet at midnight, you will give your last breath and open the path to the world of shadows. I will be free, but you will remain in my place, bearing the same burden.”

   The girl felt her chest tighten under the weight of this understanding. She was trapped in a tragic chain of fate, a surrender of the soul that would bring her ancestor an illusory peace but condemn her to the same eternal curse.

   Without further hesitation, she knelt beside the clock and placed the locket next to its cold mechanism. The clock’s final chime, at midnight, sounded like a death cry, and the shadows, like freed spirits, wove around her, absorbing her breath, her life, between the sharp hands of the clock.

Before completely fading, she looked once more at the mirror, where the woman’s face, free and relieved of pain, smiled at her sadly. She was free now, but the girl was the one who had taken on the burden. She knew that from that moment on, she was the prisoner of the shadow, of the clock, of the suspended time, lost in a world where only the shadows of the forgotten would keep her company.