The Clock with No Hands

In the corner of a dusty room, a clock hangs crooked on the wall. Its face is blank, no hands to move, no ticking sound, no time at all.

The floor is cracked, the air stands still, the windows watch with clouded eyes. A chair, a book, a faded coat— frozen where the past still lies.

No one knocks, no footsteps fall. The house forgets what years have done. Time slipped out the open door and never saw the setting sun.

Yet something lingers in the air— a whisper caught in wooden beams. The clock, though quiet, holds its breath and keeps the weight of all our dreams.

Not broken . Just waiting. For someone to remember.