The wind howled like a voice lost in time as Lyra made her way down Hallowmere Lane the next morning. Her fingers gripped the book tightly inside her coat pocket, and her boots echoed on the cobblestones, lonely and sharp.
She didn't know why she was here — not entirely. Only that something in the book had nudged her, drawing her to the oldest part of town. To a tiny, crooked shop squeezed between a herbal apothecary and an antique mirror store: Tavernier's Timepieces.
Inside, it was dim and cluttered, the air thick with the scent of old wood and oil. Every surface was filled with clocks — tall grandfather clocks, tiny golden pocket watches, cuckoo clocks, and strange ones shaped like eyes or stars.
The man who emerged from behind the counter looked just as ancient as his wares. He wore round spectacles and had hands stained with time. He didn't ask her name. He didn't ask why she had come.
"You've seen it," he said, voice a whisper, as if afraid of the sound it might make.
Lyra froze. "Seen what?"
"The castle. In your dreams."
She didn't answer. She didn't have to. He nodded slowly.
"You're not the first, child. And you won't be the last. But you're closer than any of them have ever been."
He turned, motioning her forward to the back of the shop. There, behind a glass case, lay a pocket watch unlike any she had seen. It was silver, etched with symbols that pulsed faintly, like breathing ink.
"It's broken," he said. "But only because it's waiting."
"Waiting for what?" she whispered.
"For you to choose when to open the door."
She looked at him, eyes wide. "What door?"
He leaned closer, and his breath fogged the glass between them. "The one that splits hours from eternity. The one you've already stepped through in your sleep."
She reached out — but the watch was gone. So was the glass. So was the man.
Lyra stood alone in the shop, the clocks ticking louder now. Every single one pointing to the same hour.
Eleven past eleven.