The following morning, Alice awoke to a sound that wasn't the gentle tick-tock of her own bedside clock, nor the distant clang of the smithy's hammer. It was a clear, melodic chime, sweet and resonant, cutting through the morning mist that still clung to her windowpanes. Her eyes flew open, and there, sitting precisely on her small, neat nightstand, was the magical alarm clock from the church.
Its mother-of-pearl inlay shimmered in the faint dawn light, and its hands glowed with that familiar, soft luminescence. It chimed again, a gentle, insistent call that seemed to echo the very melody she had heard the day before. Alice sat up, bewildered. Had she brought it home without realizing? No, she distinctly remembered leaving it on the altar table. A strange sense of profound connection, almost of inevitability, washed over her. It had found its way to her.
She carefully picked it up, feeling its warmth, its silent, steady hum. It was undoubtedly the same clock. A wave of responsibility settled on her. She couldn't keep it; it belonged at the church, with Lucifer. She would complete her rounds as usual, and then, immediately after, she would take it back.
Her morning rounds were a familiar rhythm of keys turning, pendulums swinging, and brief, cheerful exchanges. Yet, today, Alice felt a peculiar lightness in her step, but also a persistent unease. The magical clock, carefully wrapped in a clean cloth and tucked deep into her satchel, vibrated faintly against her hip, a constant, silent companion. Every clock she wound felt a little different today—the usual comforting rhythms seemed just slightly off, a fraction too fast, or a shade too slow, though she couldn't pinpoint why. She shrugged it off as her imagination, a lingering effect of the mysterious clock.
As the sun began its slow descent, painting the western sky in hues of fiery orange and soft lavender, Alice found herself nearing the town square, the magical clock now the priority. Her path was suddenly blocked by a small, curious crowd, mostly children, gathered around a peculiar sight.
In the center stood a man who could only be described as a walking whirlwind of scientific enthusiasm. This was Sam Noctis, the eccentric scientist who occasionally blew into Twilight's Ember, trailing wild theories and even wilder hair. Today, his dark, disheveled locks seemed to defy gravity, and his tweed coat was adorned with a multitude of small, whirring gears and springs. He gesticulated wildly, a chalk-dusted blackboard on an easel behind him, covered in arcane symbols and diagrams.
"And so, you see, young minds!" Sam boomed, his voice carrying surprising volume for his wiry frame, "Time is not merely the progression of moments! It is the very fabric upon which reality is woven! A delicate tapestry! A… a grand cosmic clockwork!"
Beside him, with an expression of patient amusement, stood his assistant, Terra Luna. She was Sam's antithesis: calm, grounded, her long, dark braid neatly coiled, her clothes practical and simple. She held a large, leather-bound book, occasionally offering a quiet correction or a steadying hand as Sam nearly toppled his easel.
Intrigued, Alice paused, joining the fringe of the children, the magical clock's soft hum now a distinct presence against her side.
Sam's eyes, bright and darting, scanned the crowd. Suddenly, they fixated on Alice. A wide, almost manic grin split his face. "Ah! And who among us knows the true heart of time better than our own Alice! The Clock Courier! Come forward, my dear!"
Caught off guard, Alice felt a blush creep up her neck as the children turned to stare. She reluctantly stepped forward, clutching her satchel a little tighter.
"Alice!" Sam exclaimed, practically vibrating with excitement. "A living embodiment of temporal precision! Tell me, my dear, do you perhaps carry a clock with you that might illustrate my point? Something truly… special?"
Alice hesitated, her grip tightening on the satchel's strap. "Well, I… I do have one, sir, but it's not for… showing. And I really shouldn't…"
Before she could finish, Sam's eyes had caught sight of the faint, glowing luminescence emanating from within her satchel. With an eager cry of "Aha!" he reached in, his fingers surprisingly nimble despite his general fluster, and extracted the magical alarm clock.
"Magnificent!" he crowed, holding it aloft for the crowd to admire. The children gasped at its beauty, its glowing hands. "Look at this craftsmanship! And the energy! Remarkable!" He turned it over in his hands, examining the winding key. "A clock of such… potential! It simply begs to be wound!"
"No, please, sir!" Alice protested, reaching out. "It's very sensitive! And it's not mine, I'm supposed to take it back to the church, it—"
But Sam, swept up in his own momentum, ignored her pleas. "Nonsense, my dear! All clocks benefit from a good wind! Especially one of such… ancient design!" With a flourish, he inserted the key and gave it a robust, decisive turn.
The instant the winding mechanism engaged, a profound shift rippled through Twilight's Ember. It wasn't loud or dramatic at first. It was a subtle, almost imperceptible hiccup in the very air. The usual gentle sea breeze died entirely, then picked up again, but oddly, from the wrong direction. The faint, comforting scent of peat smoke seemed to momentarily vanish, replaced by a fleeting whiff of something metallic and ozone. The distant gulls, mid-cry, seemed to hold their note for a beat too long before finishing. Colours around them—the vibrant greens of ivy, the soft blues of distant sky—seemed to momentarily intensify, then dim, as if a veil had flickered over the world. A shared, unspoken flicker of disorientation passed through the crowd, children tilting their heads, adults frowning in vague confusion.
Sam Noctis, oblivious in his scientific fervor, held the clock, beaming. "There! Perfect! A truly robust—"
Before he could finish, the magical alarm clock let out a sound that shook Twilight's Ember to its very foundations. It wasn't a mere chime; it was a vast, resounding peal, a multi-layered harmony that swelled from its small form and reverberated through every cobblestone, every timber, every drop of salt spray. It was the beautiful, mournful melody Alice had heard, amplified a thousandfold, imbued with the power of the church's ancient song, now woven with a new, strange energy from Sam's winding.
The sound vibrated in Alice's bones, in her very soul. It was a chime that wasn't just heard, but felt—a profound, resonant thrumming that washed over the entire town. Kettles stopped whistling. Distant bells fell silent. The rhythmic tick of every clock in Twilight's Ember seemed to stutter, then syncopate, then fall into a new, unfamiliar rhythm, echoing the alarm clock's powerful, magical song.
Every window in every cottage and shop in Twilight's Ember opened, heads poking out, eyes wide with a mixture of awe and alarm. Dogs began to bark, then howl. The air itself seemed to hum with the lingering resonance of the sound, and the subtle, strange shift in the town felt suddenly, terrifyingly, real. Alice stared at the clock in Sam's hands, no longer just a beautiful object, but a powerful, unpredictable force. The quiet wonder she usually carried had just been profoundly, irrevocably, awakened.
To be continued…