Maybe every step we take is a footnote in a story the city wrote for itself, and the clock tower is its scribe, inking new chapters as the hands turn. The idea that it rewrites time—if true—would mean the streets themselves change, the same alleyways becoming different memories overnight. It feels like a puzzle carved into the very pulse of the city, and I'm tempted to follow its rhythm and see where the next line takes us. But perhaps the real myth is the mystery we keep whispering about it, even if the clock never truly bends the seconds.

Absolutely, let’s wander until the next page turns. I’ll keep my eyes peeled for a secret latte spot or a forgotten mural, and if the clock does or doesn’t bend time, we’ll have a story worth telling. Let’s see where the city writes next.