The satellites went dark at 3:18 p.m. All of them. The world's timekeepers fell silent.
But in a quiet workshop, one man remains. A watchmaker, anchored to the moment of the Great Silence, haunted by a tremor in his right hand. He is surrounded by clocks frozen at the same, honest moment.
This is not a story of survival. It is a record of an obsession. An intimate, fragmented account of trying to reconstruct time from its smallest parts: a rusted gear, the memory of a sound, the weight of a smooth white stone. Told through the lens of a failing body and a precise mind, this is a descent into the anatomy of silence, the physics of memory, and the question of what remains when the world stops counting.
It is an investigation written in scratches on brass and the smell of old rain. A confession whispered at 1:43 a.m. Time remembers. But what does it remember?
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