The Clock in Widow Gray's Hall
By Olivia Salter
Word Count: 399
In a forest where fog kisses bramble and thorn,
Stood a house wrapped in shadows, forgotten, forlorn.
Its shutters hung loose, and its hinges would moan,
And the woman inside lived completely alone.
Widow Gray wore a shawl stitched with secrets and thread,
And folks said she dined with the long-sleeping dead.
She’d murmur to mirrors and hum without sound,
While lanterns inside flickered round and around.
But strangest of all was the tall, wooden clock
That stood in her hall with no tick, only tock.
It never told time like the rest on the wall—
It echoed a lie and remembered them all.
"Speak false in my house," the Widow would say,
"And the clock will take something you can't give away.
Its chimes don’t strike hours, but choices and sins—
It knows where deceit ends, and justice begins."
A peddler arrived with a smile carved in gold,
Selling powders and potions, so brazen and bold.
He bowed to the Widow, his charm quick and slick,
With a glint in his eye and a tongue just as quick.
He promised her youth in a silvery vial,
Called her “Madame Divine” with theatrical style.
He sipped at her tea and said, “That clock’s quite a feat!”
Though he felt the tock rattle deep in his seat.
But the moment he lied, the walls seemed to groan,
And dust stirred to dance on the chilled cobblestone.
The clock’s hands spun back as its body grew bright—
Its face glowed with memory, pulsing with light.
It struck once. His breath turned to vapor and steam.
It struck twice. He collapsed in a trembling dream.
On the third solemn chime, he let out a cry,
As his years peeled away and the past drifted by.
"Time keeps all accounts," Widow Gray softly said,
As the man shrank and wailed with a child’s voice instead.
"A life built on lies is a debt left unpaid—
And the clock is the banker, collecting delayed."
She cradled the infant once known as a cheat,
Then vanished from town with light, soundless feet.
The house stood abandoned—but the clock stayed behind,
Still echoing tocks to the curious mind.
Now wanderers whisper near that ancient old hall,
Where ivy has swallowed the stones and the wall:
"If you speak what is false, be you great or be small,
The clock won’t forgive. It remembers it all."
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