The Girl and the Dream Clock
by Storyora
You probably walked past the old iron street clock a hundred times and never noticed it was stuck. People don’t look up anymore. And if they do, they don’t look long. But the girl did. She noticed. She always noticed things others didn’t.
Her name? Iris. Twelve. Wore a hoodie two sizes too big. Always carried a notebook with stars drawn in the corners. She lived in the quiet part of town, next to the laundromat with the flickering sign. Every evening at exactly 11:47, she’d stand across the street from that clock and stare.
Time That Didn’t Move
They said the clock broke years ago. That the city forgot about it. But Iris didn’t believe that. She swore she saw the hands move sometimes—just a twitch. Barely there. Like the clock was holding its breath.
One night, she stayed past midnight. She waited. Her parents thought she was asleep. But Iris had questions. And dreams. And guts. So she stood there at 12:03 AM, when the street was silent enough to hear a paper cup roll by. That’s when the clock chimed.
Yes, it chimed. Soft and low, like a yawn. And then it opened.
The front panel of the clock, which had never been seen ajar before, creaked outward like a small door. And from inside? A boy stepped out. Pale coat. No shoes. And eyes that didn’t match. One grey. One gold.
“You’re Late,” He Said
She didn’t scream. (She’d read too many fantasy books for that.) She just blinked. “I don’t have an appointment.”
“Don’t we all?” he replied, pulling a feather from behind his ear and sticking it into the air. It floated, glowed faintly, and dissolved.
His name was Miro. Or that’s what he called himself. Said he was a keeper of Unnoticed Things. Shadows that don’t match their owners. Thoughts that slip through before you write them down. Dreams you forget the second you wake up.
And time. Broken, misplaced, stolen, paused—he kept those too.
She Followed Him
Because of course she did. Into the clock, through a spiral of brass and soft ticking. Into a space that wasn’t a room, or a tunnel, or a dream—but all three. Inside, time was a string, stretched and looped around shelves. You could touch it. Smell it. Hear it hum. It sounded like lullabies and thunder mixed together.
Miro showed her moments. People pausing before they kiss. Someone changing their mind seconds before a phone call. A child choosing not to lie. A man staring at a train ticket he’ll never use. Every moment suspended like crystal bubbles.
He said, “You see why I need help?”
She nodded.
The Choice
He offered her one task: pick one forgotten moment, and set it free. Restore it. Let someone live it again. Iris hesitated. Then chose a bubble with a woman at a piano. Her hands hovered, unsure. She never played. The bubble shimmered. Popped.
Somewhere, a woman woke up with music in her fingers.
When She Came Back
It was 11:48 PM. Only one minute had passed. But Iris felt different. Not older, exactly. Just... a little more here. She walked home barefoot. Forgot her notebook on the clock’s base. It wasn’t there the next day.
But the clock ticked. Just once, at midnight. Every night.
Why It Matters
You don’t have to believe this story. Iris wouldn’t mind. She’d just smile. Maybe show you a feather that glows faintly in the dark. Maybe not.
But next time you see something out of place—like a sock in a tree, or a cat staring too long at a wall—maybe pause. Maybe some moments aren’t broken. Just waiting.
🌟 Share Your Dream Story
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We want to hear it. Visit our Submit Your Story page and send us your fantasy, mystery, or true encounter with the odd and the wonderful. Your voice could become someone’s favorite midnight tale.
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