2025.10.23
Jain was known as the keeper of forgotten seasons. She lived in a small house surrounded by clocks that no longer ticked. Each watch, he said, held the memory of a moment one wished they could get back — a child’s laugh, a parent’s last hug, a summer storm that washed away grief. Jane never set these clocks. He listened to them.
Every morning, she walks far enough to hear the faint whisper of her past. Some mumbled softly, others murmured sadly. Jane wrote what she heard in her notebooks – not words, but colors. He believed that time could only be recorded by shades: the amber of longing, the blue of silence, the red of remembrance.
Visitors came from far and wide, hoping that Jane could help them recover what they had lost. He never promised to undo the past. Instead, he presented color—a pigment mixed with dust, tears, and light. “Hold it in your hand,” she would say. “It will disappear, but so will we. What matters is that it once existed.”
When Jane grew old, the clocks stopped by themselves. One by one, their silence filled her house. Yet he smiled, knowing that time had not abandoned him—it had come home to rest.