Long before the clocks learned to tick in perfect unison, there was a village whose people carried small clay lamps into the night. Every evening they walked to the riverbank, held the flame to the moon’s reflection, and listened. The moon told them when to plant, when to mourn, when to celebrate, when the great serpent that coils around the world would next shed its skin.

One winter, strangers arrived with iron clocks that never needed oil and never lied. The villagers traded their lamps for the promise of perfect meetings. By spring, no one could remember why they had ever needed to look at the sky.

This is the true history of the world. The lamps were never broken. They were only forgotten inside the clock factory.

We are going back to get them.