By morning, the fog had thickened until the town looked drowned in milk.Elias barely slept. The sound of the ticking still echoed in his mind, steady as a heartbeat that wasn't his. The image of that mirrored chamber, those whispering reflections, refused to leave him.
He met Sheriff Alden at the diner again. Neither spoke for a long time. Mira poured them both coffee — though her hands trembled as she did.
"You both look like you've seen a ghost," she said softly.
Elias forced a weak smile. "Something like that."
The sheriff sipped his coffee. "We found something last night," he finally said. "Below the clock tower."
Mira blinked. "Below?"
Alden hesitated, then looked at Elias, as if deciding how much to tell her. "There's a… chamber down there. Mirrors, old machinery maybe. We heard voices. Music."
Mira paled. "Music?"
"Yes," Elias said. "It sounded like a festival."
The mug slipped from her hands and shattered. The diner fell silent. Mira stared at the shards as if she'd seen her own reflection bleed from them.
"The Festival of Hours," she whispered.
Elias leaned forward. "You remember that name?"
She looked up slowly, her eyes glassy. "No," she said. "That's the problem. I don't. But I've heard it somewhere… like an echo."
The sheriff frowned. "You sure you're not just—"
Before he could finish, the diner lights flickered. The radio behind the counter crackled to life, though no one had turned it on.
A woman's voice came through — old, warped, and distant.
"Welcome, dear citizens of Hollow's End, to the annual Festival of Hours! Remember, once the clock strikes twelve—"
Static swallowed the rest. The bulb above them burst with a sharp pop.
Mira screamed. The sheriff drew his gun out of reflex. Elias sat frozen.
The radio went dead. The fog outside pressed against the glass like something alive.
Elias whispered, "That was real, wasn't it?"
Alden's voice was hoarse. "That broadcast shouldn't exist. The last town radio station shut down decades ago."
They spent the afternoon in the records office. The building smelled of mildew and ink, its shelves lined with dusty ledgers. Elias combed through old newspapers, scanning every page.
Nothing before the year 1970. Entire decades gone — burned, missing, or censored.
But in one drawer, hidden behind a loose board, he found a single folded flyer. The paper was brittle, yellowed, but the print was clear enough to read.
THE FESTIVAL OF HOURSCome witness the grand celebration of memory and eternity. When the clock strikes twelve, time shall belong to Hollow's End forever.
Below that, someone had scrawled a warning in fresh ink:
"Do not let it strike again."
Elias's hands shook. "They were trying to stop it."
The sheriff stared at the paper. "Or hide it."
Mira appeared in the doorway, her face pale. "Elias… you might want to see this."
She held up a faded photograph she'd found between two ledgers. It showed the town square — bright and alive, decorations strung from every building. People smiling, confetti falling.
And at the center of the photo stood the clock tower, striking twelve.
The date at the bottom read: November 7.
Elias's voice trembled. "That's tomorrow."
The sheriff folded the flyer, pocketed it. "Then we need to make sure it doesn't happen again."
But outside, as they left the office, the fog shifted — revealing a banner across the main street, strung up overnight.
WELCOME TO THE FESTIVAL OF HOURS.
Elias's blood ran cold. "Who put that there?"
Mira whispered, "Maybe… we did."
To be continued…
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