Every morning, the old clockmaker wound the town’s bell tower by hand. Most thought it was pointless in the age of digital time. But he insisted: “Time should be touched while the hour lasts.”
One winter morning, the bell struck noon and chimed thirteen times. The town gathered, murmuring in confusion.
Then, one by one, their phones began to freeze. Computers flickered out. Only the old bell kept steady time.
People rushed to the tower. The clockmaker smiled, as if expecting them.
“Don’t be afraid,” he said. “I’ve given you an extra hour. Use it for something that matters.”
And just like that, each person felt it — an hour that didn’t exist on any screen, but lived inside them. Some hugged family, others wrote letters, and a few simply rested.
When the bell struck one, the extra hour vanished.
The clockmaker locked the tower doors and whispered, “See you tomorrow.”
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