The Clockmaker's Constellation

The brass gears of the sky grind against the velvet dark, polishing the edges of the moon until the light is sharp enough to cut. We mark the hours in copper, tracing the orbits of a dying star, where the silence is a heavy weight balanced on a single, silver needle. The wind carries the scent of oil and the faint, metallic hum of night, as the universe winds its mainspring against the inevitable pull of dawn. Each second is a tooth in a wheel, catching on the fabric of the void, until the mechanism finally breaks and spills its golden secrets on the floor.