In the far edges of Velmir County, where mist sits on rooftops like sleeping ghosts and roosters crow in slow motion, time moved a little differently. Clocks refused to tick right here. Candles burned slower. Even shadows seemed uncertain of their place.
At the edge of this crooked village stood a hut built from fallen stars and old wood. That was where Kaelith Orin lived — a boy no one wanted, raised by something no one believed in anymore.
His mother's broom.
The broom was alive. Not in the ordinary sense — it did not speak or eat or sleep — but it understood. It swept floors on its own, stirred soup when Kaelith forgot, and once, when the roof cracked in a storm, it held itself against the wind until dawn.
The villagers called him Broomchild, Witch's Remnant, and sometimes just curse-boy. They spat when he passed. They whispered that his mother, Seren Orin, had tried to steal time from the gods — and that the beheading didn't work because witches never truly die.
Kaelith didn't care much for whispers. He cared about the sound the broom made when it swept: a faint hum, soft and steady, like breathing. He'd learned to fall asleep to it.
One morning, as the fog rolled down from the hills, the broom began to move strangely. Instead of sweeping, it spun. Once. Twice. Then it scratched circles into the dirt — tight spirals glowing faintly silver.
Kaelith frowned. "That's not cleaning," he muttered.
The broom stopped. Then, with a slow, deliberate motion, it drew a single line through the middle of the spiral — a mark like a clock hand. The air thickened. The birds went quiet.
And for a heartbeat — just one — everything stopped.
The wind froze. The fog hung midair. A droplet of water, falling from the roof, hovered beside his cheek like glass. Kaelith's chest refused to rise; the world was holding its breath.
Then, inside his mind, a voice spoke — not loud, but ancient.
> "Kaelith Orin. You are seen."
The broom dropped to the floor, still and ordinary again. The world exhaled, the droplet splashed, and Kaelith fell to his knees. On his wrist, faint and silver, a mark burned like a whisper of light — the same symbol the broom had drawn.
He didn't know it yet, but that was the Sigil of Time.
Outside, the village bells tolled noon.
Inside, the boy who stopped time tried to breathe.