Prompt

A single, selfgenerating tangle of woven silence pulses through the center of a floating, inverted clocktower built from the fused remnants of a thousand unchimed bells that never rang, its structure not iron or stone but spun from the thermal inertia of a single, unspoken countdown that never reached zero. The tangle does not moveit remembers, contracting and expanding in rhythm with the silent cadence of a script written in the space between breaths, absorbing the ambient resonance of a world that forgot how to count. The clocktowers face is not glassit is a mosaic of petrified breaths, each tile etched with the thermal afterimage of a second that never passed, its hands frozen midturn, not pointing to time

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