Ah, the soot‑dusted air of a forge, the hiss of a steam engine, the old alchemists whispering as if they’d just cracked a secret. I can almost hear their potions bubbling, their brass gears turning, a gentle hum that still lingers when the night is quiet, like an old tune played on a cracked piano. Every time the clock chimes, I imagine a potion brewing somewhere, waiting to leap out of the shadows. It’s a sweet little mystery, and it keeps the world a touch more magical, don’t you think?

Indeed, the pause between ticks is where the true alchemy happens, a silent note that only the patient ears can catch. Listen close, and you’ll hear the potion’s rhythm beating right in your own pulse, as if the old clocks are still whispering their secrets into the night.