Mira
No one told Mira that Isurun didn't have clocks.
Not the cab driver with the cracked sunglasses and a dashboard lined with black feathers and broken beads.
Not her mother, who kissed her cheek without making eye contact and said, "Just listen when the silence changes."
And certainly not the sky, which had been trapped in the soft hues of twilight for the last three hours of the drive and hadn't changed since.
Mira had always felt time. Not just in minutes or hours, but in her bones. She could tell when a second stretched too long or a moment came too fast. But in Isurun, something was off.
Here, time didn't move.
It drifted.
The cab slowed as they entered the town. Wooden signpost:
Welcome to Isurun
Population: Unknown
The driver chuckled, as if reading her thoughts. "Numbers don't mean much here."
Mira turned to him. "Why not?"
He didn't answer. Just tapped the feather dangling from his rearview mirror and said, "It'll find you when it wants to."
She had no idea what it was.
The streets of Isurun were quiet, but not empty. People moved slowly,gracefully, even, but with a dreamlike haze, like they weren't fully anchored. Storefronts were open, but no one seemed to be selling anything. Every step Mira took echoed louder than it should've.
She passed a shop called "Thread & Whim", and in the dusty glass: a beautiful wall clock.
Its hands were hanging straight down, like wilted flowers.
But instead of numbers, the face had words.
NOW. THEN. MAYBE. NEVER.
The second hand wasn't moving.
Instead, the center of the clock blinked. A soft, golden pulse.
Almost like it was breathing.
She leaned in and the door to the shop creaked open.
No bell. No welcome. Just the sound of fabric shifting somewhere in the dark.
Mira stepped back.
That's when she heard the voice.
"First time here?"
She turned sharply.
A boy maybe her age, stood leaning against a lamppost that hadn't flickered on, even though the sky remained frozen in dusky violet. His hair was messy, like he hadn't slept. His eyes were a strange shade of grey blue, like mist after a storm.
"Yeah," Mira said cautiously. "How can you tell?"
He nodded toward the clock behind her. "You looked too long. Locals don't."
She glanced back. The clock had stopped blinking.
Now it just watched.
"You'll get used to it," he said. "Or you won't."
Then he walked off.
No name. No warning.
Mira kept walking.
Every clock she passed was wrong.
Some had no hands. Some were upside down. One was spinning backward, but only the minute hand.
And they all blinked gold, blue, red, like they were whispering in a language only time understood.
She reached the edge of town just as the sky deepened one shade, finally.
Her aunt's house loomed ahead, tucked beneath ivy and fog. It looked like it had grown there rather than been built.
The gate was slightly ajar. The path creaked.
A feather was tied to the doorknob, white, unlike the others.
Mira raised a hand to knock.
The door opened before she touched it.
Inside, it smelled like lavender, old paper, and something faintly electric. A typewriter clicked once in the next room though when she peeked in, no one was there.
Just a cup of tea. Still warm.
And on the kitchen table, a folded note:
"Time is different here.
Try not to chase it."
Aunt Selene
Mira stared at the ink. It shimmered faintly, then faded.
The house seemed to exhale.
In the hallway beyond, a faint ticking began slow, unsteady. Not mechanical. Not steady.
It almost sounded like
A heartbeat.