The Vanishing Hour

Poem

At 3:17, the clocks forgot to tick.

The world inhaled

and never exhaled.

Shadows grew longer than time should allow,

slipping under doors,

whispering secrets in voices I once knew.

The lamp flickered

though there was no wind.

The photo on the wall…

smiled differently.

I watched the hour vanish

not fade,

not pass,

but vanish,

like breath against glass in the cold.

My phone lost signal.

The mirror refused to show me back.

Even my heartbeat paused

as if time had taken it for ransom.

Footsteps echoed in the attic.

But I live alone.

A child's laughter crawled through the hallway.

But I have no child.

And then I saw it

not a figure,

but a presence

draped in silence, wearing the face

of someone I loved

but lost long ago.

“Come,” it whispered,

“the hour is thin. You must decide.”

Between memory and oblivion,

between waking and sleep,

between staying...

and vanishing too.

I chose to write.

To remember.

To fight the fade.

So if you read this,

and your clock ticks strange,

and your walls breathe,

don’t run.

Just listen.

The Vanishing Hour comes for all

but only those who fear it

disappear.