The Edge of clocks

Field Notes — Entry 002: The Edge of Clocks

Traveler’s Log, Energy Levels: Exhausted

The Fog pressed thick against my skin, damp and endless. Every path I tried folded back on itself. My satchel felt heavier with each step, though I carried nothing new — or so I thought.

A sudden clink.
I paused, frowning, and rummaged inside. Three spoons rattled against one another.

“Honey Drop!” I hissed. The sprite hovered beside me, wings humming, eyes gleaming with mischief. Another spoon, swiped from who-knows-where, dangled from its tiny grip.

“You can’t just keep stealing these,” I scolded, plucking it free. The sprite chirped indignantly, zipped a circle around my head, and — before I could protest — dropped the spoon back into the satchel with a smug plink.

The Fog hissed louder, as if mocking me. Just when I thought I’d collapse into the mist, a crooked outline emerged ahead: an inn leaning sideways, patched beams barely holding, its walls cluttered with wheezing clocks.

Enter the Inn at the Edge of Clocks.

The Fog pressed against the warped windows, whispering: “Run. Hurry. You’re already behind.”
I gripped the strap of my pack tighter. Every part of me wanted to sprint. But my legs dragged, heavy as lead.

A figure shuffled forward from behind the counter — a station keeper in a soot-stained coat, brass keys jangling at his belt, eyes like clouded glass. His gaze lingered not on me, but on the glowing sprite at my shoulder.

“Been a long time since one of those came through,” he rasped, voice rough as rust.

From a hook above, he dragged down a blackened lantern and set it heavily on the counter.

Honey Drop quivered, then darted inside the lantern. At once, the Inn shuddered. Clocks rattled, gears spun, light warped.

The room dissolved into a vision: three figures of myself stood before me — one striding fast, all fire and urgency; one walking steady, shoulders loose; one kneeling, weary but unbroken.

Each glowed with a different light: full moon, soft dawn, dim ember. Honey Drop pulsed in the lantern, cycling the phases.

Then, just as suddenly, it was gone. The crooked beams and wheezing clocks returned. Only my racing pulse proved it had been real.

The Keeper leaned closer, cloudy eyes sharpening like flint.

“Sprite’s chosen you, eh? Then the clocks will answer to you now.”

From beneath the counter he slid forward a tarnished pocket watch, its face dull, chain bent.

“The clocks won’t cheat you if you’re honest with yourself. Sprint when you’re full, walk when you’re steady, crawl when you’re dim. But move you must. Even a spoon’s worth of motion keeps you from the Fog.”

Honey Drop jingled the stolen spoon in my satchel, smug.

I used to treat pace like weakness. But here, pace was design. Shame isn’t a compass; it’s a chain. Matching my step to my energy didn’t mean falling behind — it meant surviving the Fog.

If your mind demands speed while your body whispers “soft,” you’re not broken — you’re human. Many of us are relearning time after long winters. The Edge of Clocks reminds us: you don’t have to run at every bell. You can arrive gently.

I left the Inn slower than I wanted, steadier than I expected. Honey Drop jingled another spoon against the satchel — a reminder that even stolen scraps of time can be gifts.

map folded. compass clicked. En-route to the next waypoint .