That day, the town came to a halt.
It was a summer afternoon, with the sun fixed at its zenith, refusing to budge. The clocks stopped, the trains ceased their journeys, and even the wind stilled. The radio, which might have announced a power outage, was eerily silent, casting an otherworldly pall over the town. Quiet blanketed the streets, and not a soul seemed to venture outside.
Shota, a high school student, stared idly at the shopping district through his bedroom window. The usually bustling streets lay abandoned, and the clock’s hands remained frozen at 2:00 PM. Sensing the strangeness of it all, Shota decided to step out for a walk.
Everywhere he went, silence reigned supreme. He wandered through the empty shopping district, past shuttered storefronts and newspapers strewn on the ground. The unease in his chest grew heavier with each step. Almost unconsciously, his feet led him to the alley behind the train station. It was rumored to house a “phantom library,” though no one had ever confirmed its existence.
There, he found an old wooden door, worn with age. Gently pushing it open, Shota stepped into a world entirely different from the frozen town. Rows of bookshelves stretched endlessly, bathed in a warm, golden glow. At the center of the room sat an elderly man, holding a vintage clock.
“I didn’t expect you to come,” the man said with a kind smile.
“What is this place?” Shota asked, his voice tinged with wonder.
The man gestured to the clock in his hand. “As long as this clock remains still, so does your town. But to set it in motion again, you must reclaim what has been lost.”
On the desk lay a single book. Opening it, Shota found it was a chronicle of his childhood memories. Each page brought vivid scenes to life: days spent with his family, laughter shared with friends, and the brilliance of the “present” that now seemed dim and distant.
“Remember,” the old man said, “the weight of the time you’ve forgotten.”
As Shota closed the final page, he took a deep breath. The clock let out a soft tick and began to move, the hands inching forward to 2:01 PM. Outside, the wind stirred, and lights flickered back to life.
Turning to revisit the library, Shota found the door had vanished. Yet, he carried the weight of the clock and the significance of lost time etched into his heart.
Back in the reawakened town, the evening chime rang through the air. For Shota, it was a poignant reminder of the fragile beauty of ordinary life—a sound that reassured him that time, once again, was moving forward.
