Talking Clock Novels & Stories

"And the door was open. I thought you might have... I don't know, fainted from all the stoicism." Julian rubbed his face, He looked at the clock parts, then at her. He didn't look angry. He just looked exposed. "It’s an astronomical clock," he said, leaning back against the mahogany base of the workbench. "Eighteenth-century French. It was designed to track the movements of the planets, the phases of the moon, and the tides. It hasn't ticked since the French Revolution." Maya sat down on the floor a few feet away from him, ignoring the "off-limits" rule entirely. "Can you fix it?"

Yet I couldn’t help thinking about Enzo. “How much is this clock?” An elderly man asked pulling me out of my thoughts. I smiled as I saw the clock he was holding. It was an antique wall clock that had worn with age. The golden hands ticked steadily and the frame had gold designs. “That’s a beautiful piece,” I said, stepping closer. “It’s from the late 1800s, handcrafted with brass details.” I ran a gentle hand over the wood. “It still works perfectly.”

He closed his eyes and took a deep breath, trying to get himself under control as he gripped the arm of his chair subconsciously, his right forefinger grazing his lips. “Doctor King will soon be here. Five minutes max...” he thought. The big grandfather clock in the corner ticked loudly, and he exhaled. Time. Only Time. He shut his eyes and let his acute wolf hearing concentrate on the ticking sound. Tick-tock, tick-tock, tick-tock... He did not know how many ticks he counted, but then the telephone on his desk rang. He spun around once again, reached where the telephone lay and picked up the call.

This time, the live comments were completely different from the previous life, when he appeared as the heroic protagonist. "Help. He's so ugly. What the hell." "Ew… I'm logging off to throw up." "Hey, whose pet pig is this?" … From the moment I called Mom, and she told me my birthday, I was certain this world wasn't real. On the phone, she said I was born on June 18th, 2000. That was indeed the birthday listed on my ID, but when I was little, due to a mistake by the local government office, my birthday had been recorded a day early.

Galum said as he dried the plate with the rag and put it in the rack. "If it's not too much to ask, can you plan the second day? I'll be here around..." Jai tried to count. "Nine o'clock," Barun answered for him. "Letush and the castle are only two hours apart. We can depart around half past six." Jai clenched his jaw from asking, 'How can you tell the time when you have no clock?' But he refrained from doing so. He had just gotten to know that there is also a certain technology named Clock here. He saw it in Darisha's room this morning, and she told him there's one clock on the kitchen's wall.

"They match the shapes on the desk. We just need to align them." "No, no," he says, waving me off. He’s hunched over the desk, frantically typing codes into a keypad. "It’s a Fibonacci sequence. Look at the intervals of the clock chiming. It’s 1, 1, 2, 3... we just need the next digit." "Owen, the clock is just broken! Look at the carvings!" "I’ve got it, Sydney! Trust the process!" He slams a code into the keypad with a triumphant grin.

Less than five minutes later, every monitor connected to me began emitting a piercing beep. With that, Emily let out a laugh, pulled on her mask, and walked out of the hospital room. Doctors and nurses immediately rushed inside, and the room descended into chaos. “This is bad! The patient’s blood-clotting ability is deteriorating. At this rate, she'll die from infection! We have to get her back to Nueva York immediately. They have medication there that takes effect quickly!”

The Station Master led us to a recessed alcove carved into the stone behind the clockwork core. On a wooden table sat a device that belonged in a museum: an early 200-level audio history textbook come to life—an original Edison wax-cylinder phonograph, its brass horn gleaming faintly in the yellow lantern light.

“Their thoughts aren’t.” James looked back toward the key. “It’s creating something.” “A window.” ⸻ The apartment suddenly felt unnaturally still. No humming refrigerator. No traffic. No wind. Only their breathing. Then… The grandfather clock in the hallway downstairs struck. One. Two. Three. Four. Each chime echoed longer than it should have. When the fourth faded… The brass pocket watch in James’s hand began ticking. Tick. Tick. Tick. Its hands lurched forward. 4:14.

Instead, a hidden latch hidden behind the carved wooden crown of the clock released with a dull thud. Vikram reached out, his fingers brushing against the cold, aged wood. The entire face of the grandfather clock swung open like a narrow door, revealing not the intricate gears and brass weights of a standard timepiece, but a dark, hollow shaft leading straight down into the foundations of the old house.