The Cursed Clock of Blackthorn Hollow

Rain tapped incessantly against the window, the scent of wet cobblestones mingling with the musty odour of aged wood. He dressed mechanically, his fingers brushing the grooves

as paused at the door, watching Old Thomas berate his mule in the mist-shrouded street. The butcher's boy whistled as he d

crates. The boy yelped as apples tumbled into the gutter- minor chaos, yet the world froze. The mule brayed louder. Mrs

ges. No

. That night, he scribbled notes- times, patterns, anom