I open the book.
Nothing.
I flip through the pages, one after another.
"Blank."
I inspect every page.
An absence lingers in the book.
A journal?
No.
If it were a journal, why scatter the pages all over the room?
And that symbol...
There has to be something.
In my attempt to find anything,
I begin tearing apart the cover.
"Oh."
I find some hidden pages.
"I am Veyne R."
"The situation is not improving, but in our last expedition to the war zone, we found something.
Among the ruins of a godless church, we discovered a journal—belonging to a bishop or priest.
It was found next to a clock with no hands.
Inside, it told the story of three people."
* A monarch who lost everything and lives in his own illusion.
(According to the investigation, somewhere on this continent—in the sky, beneath the earth, in the sea, or even in another realm—there is a kingdom. A kingdom of lies.)
* A woman who could never escape her own mind.
(They said she knew every answer within herself, yet she never found the way out. Despite the efforts of Sector B, we found no trace of what this could mean.)
* Someone who took no part in anything—neither hero nor villain.
(He was simply there, present at every important event in history, yet changing nothing.)
(We believe this refers to a witness—someone always present but unnoticed. A ghostly presence. We do not know his location, but we doubt speaking to this individual would be of any help.)
"Then, the religious figure describes something about a 'Pathway of Time.'
I believe that’s what he called it."
"He also explains the process of creating something called 'Sequence 9 Vial - Watchmaker.'
Described as:
* "One who understands the flow of time but cannot yet control it."
* "Cannot make time move forward or backward, but sees it in ways others do not."
* "Those who follow this path will learn that seeing is not the same as understanding."
"We believe this could be of use to the organization, Captain.
We don’t know what any of this means yet, but we can experiment with this 'Vial.'
REQUIRED MATERIALS:
* Fragment of a clock with no hands (obtained from the ruined church).
* Powdered crystal from an hourglass (made of ancient blue glass).
* Blood of someone who has "lost time."
* An old coin that has changed hands for over 100 years.
REGARDING THE "BLOOD OF SOMEONE WHO HAS LOST TIME":
"We believe this refers to someone who has been in a coma or missing for years."
INSTRUCTIONS FOR THE VIAL:
"You must remember, and then you must forget."
* The ritual must be performed exactly at 11:59.
* The person consuming it must write their name before drinking.
* If the ritual fails, DO NOT attempt it again immediately.
* Must be conducted in a space surrounded by clocks of different kinds.
"Nowhere does it explain what will happen to the person.
Nowhere does it explain the consequences.
But we are out of resources, out of people, out of hope..."
AT THE BOTTOM OF THE REPORT:
At the very bottom of the report—
Scrawled in the corner of the page—
Barely visible.
A shaky handwriting.
A single phrase.
No signature.
No context.
My fingers tense over the paper.
Did my father write this?
Or did someone add it later after reading the report?
Why leave a warning with no explanation?
VEYNE R. ENDS HIS REPORT.
"Don’t do it."
FINAL INSTRUCTIONS:
"If this does not reach the organization..."
"Memorize it. Then burn it. Do not let it fall into the wrong hands."
"If time is a path, then there are those who can walk it in both directions."
My fingers brush along the edge of the paper.
I feel as if I am holding something immensely important.
"If time is a path… then there are those who can walk it in both directions."
My eyes scan the phrase over and over.
It shouldn’t matter.
It shouldn’t... but it does.
I feel something in my chest.
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My heartbeat quickens.
As if the words themselves have become something more before I could even process them.
I close my eyes.
I breathe.
"Walking time in both directions..."
I whisper the words.
Testing them on my tongue.
As if they could change meaning if I say them again.
My gaze returns to the report.
"You must remember, and then you must forget."
I swallow hard.
Remember.
I can do that.
I must do that.
----------------------------------------
"Fragment of a clock with no hands.
Powdered crystal from a blue hourglass.
Blood of someone who has lost time.
A coin that has changed hands for over a century…"
----------------------------------------
I repeat them.
One.
Two.
Three.
Four.
Do not forget.
Do not forget.
I look around.
I must burn it.
My eyes search for something to use.
A matchstick.
A lamp.
Anything.
My eyes land on an oil lamp beside the desk.
I step toward it.
Heavy footsteps.
The sound of my boots against the wood feels...
Louder than usual.
As if the room itself is trying to remember this moment.
I reach down.
I pick up the lamp.
Its glass is covered in dust.
But the oil inside remains untouched.
I think as I prepare to burn the paper.
"What did I just read?"
"Was my father really just experimenting?"
"Those three figures—myth or reality?"
"The 'Pathway of Time'… is it more than just a name?"
I push the questions aside.
I tilt the lamp.
A few drops of oil fall onto the paper.
The smell of oil fills my nose.
It reminds me of German’s workshop.
Of late nights, cleaning old gears, our hands covered in grease and dust.
"Ethan, stop messing with that damn watch and help me with the ladder!"
"German... I should go ask him about this."
Or maybe—
"Hmm."
My fingers drift to my wrist.
"So your name is Nihyra, huh? Sorry for misgendering you, you little piece of junk."
"2:40. If you say so, Nihyra."
As I pour the oil, I recall one last time.
"You must remember, and then you must forget."
11:59.
A room filled with clocks.
The exact moment when time freezes.
A clock with no hands.
I glance around.
"Maybe it’s not here."
I grab my father’s tools.
Friction sparks.
First, a spark.
Then, a black line.
The words begin to twist under the flames.
The sentences vanish into ash.
I do not look away.
I watch every word burn.
When the last embers fade, I whisper the ingredients one final time.
"My father wrote all of this.
And now, I’m leaving it behind—just like he left me."
Leaving Room 606
I search the room for the way I entered. Room 606.
I take one last look at the drawings and structures. I gather the pages, fold them neatly into a square, and tuck them inside my jacket pocket.
"Drawings of an architect. A dirty page. A pencil. Two pounds and ten shillings."
I walk to the window and lean against the frame. I look down at the drop. Taking a breath, I jump.
I land on the trash can, tumbling over the stacked crates.
"Luckily, I didn’t break anything."
I reset the crates, moving the trash can back to its place. I step out of the alley and glance around. Then, I walk.
The streets feel different. Or maybe it’s just me.
I head toward the watch shop.
As I reach the plaza, I spot the jester.
Surrounded by children.
What is he doing now?
At first, he was singing a forbidden song. And now—
"Once upon a time, there was a kingdom greater than the Imperium. Far greater than any empire of today."
"It was so prosperous that even the gods trembled with envy. A kingdom that covered the sands, the forests, the jungles, the savannas, the seas. A kingdom so vast, that even continents beyond its borders wished to become part of it. But one day, it all crumbled. Not because of betrayal. Not because of war. Not because of failure. But because of its king."
"Lies come at a price, children. Remember what I’m about to tell you."
"For its glory was never real. Everything it built was a lie."
"It did not conquer with strength, but with deception. It did not forge alliances with honor, but with cunning. It did not win battles with power, but with tricks and manipulation."
"It was said that his tongue was sharper than any sword. That his promises were more valuable than gold. And that his kingdom was the most prosperous in history."
"But…"
"He deceived everyone. He deceived his people. He deceived his generals. He deceived his wife. He deceived his children. He deceived his blade. He deceived his allies. He deceived his own blood."
"And, most importantly—"
"He deceived himself."
"He thought he could deceive even the gods. That he could trick fate itself."
"But fate is a harsh judge. And the gods do not forgive cheats."
"The kingdom he built on lies collapsed in a single night."
"His people were massacred. His family vanished into the darkness. His palace, reduced to rubble."
"But do you know what remained, children? Can you tell me?"
"His jewels?"
"Hmm, maybe. But I seek something deeper."
"His ruins?"
"Yes, but that is not what I’m looking for."
"Him."
"Yes."
"That is the lesson of this tale, children. The most painful truth."
"He is still there. Among the ruins of his own deceit."
"With a mane of red, like the flames of the war he ignited himself. With golden armor, now rusted by the passing centuries. With an immense sword, heavy—just like the weight of his sins."
"He is not trapped. He has not been punished. He chooses to remain."
"For the worst punishment is not exile. Not death. Not vengeance."
"It is memory."
"He forces himself to remember. He does not want to forget. He cannot forget."
"Because if he forgets—his kingdom will have truly died. And if his kingdom dies—Then all his deception will have been for nothing."
"He does not hate the gods. He does not curse them. He does not defy them."
"Because he knows they were just. Because he knows his fate was inevitable."
"But he does not seek redemption. He does not seek forgiveness. He does not seek revenge."
"Because if he had to do it all over again… He would. Because the lie was his only truth."
"Is he still alive?"
"No one knows."
"Some say he was condemned to wander the ruins of his kingdom. Others say he died centuries ago, but his shadow still lingers."
"But there are those who whisper that… If you find the ruins of his kingdom… If you walk through its dead streets… If you step into his empty throne room… You will see him there."
"Seated. Upon his broken throne, covered in dust. Holding his sword, as if waiting for something."
"And when you look into his eyes… You will see a man who has lived centuries with an unbearable truth. A man who had everything, lost everything, and still… refuses to let go."
"Because that is his trial. Because that is his destiny."
"Now, children, do you understand why lying is wrong?"
"Yes!"
"And with that, this tale has come to an end."
I would have said that before.
But now...
Now, I only hear the story of a man who had everything. Who lost everything. And who still clings to a lie.
What if I’m building a lie, too?
What if I’m nothing more than a man, waiting in a throne of ruins, holding a clock with no hands?
Emma used to tell us this story whenever Paul and I would sneak out at night to eat cookies.
Back then, it was just a story.
Now—
It feels like it’s telling me something.
Something I don’t want to hear.
Reaching Bracquemont Street, I take a deep breath.
Only a few more blocks until I reach German.
But then—
A voice.
"Hey, you’re Ethan Vayne."
The sound of my name hits me like a bullet.
My body tenses instantly.
It can’t be. Not this fast. Have they already found me?
I turn around, slowly. Forcing my body not to panic.
The man standing before me does not have the casual stance of a patrolling officer.
This is not a coincidence.
His eyes scan my clothes, my face. They pause for a fraction of a second at my wrist.
At my watch.
He blinks. Almost imperceptible. But enough.
For the first time—The thought settles in my mind.
He may not be just a policeman.
I feel every muscle tense.
"Yes, officer."
I pause before responding. I do not look away.
"Why do you ask?"