For years, the old house stood rooted in silence, its walls remembering every set of footsteps that ever passed through. Tonight, the floorboards gave soft creaks as Mara wandered the hallway, a candle trembling in her hand.
She paused before the clock — the great, brass thing that hadn’t ticked in decades. Yet somehow, it still echoed faintly, as if caught in a time that refused to end. The hands stood frozen at one hour past midnight.
A chill stirred the air. Mara reached out, brushing the clock’s glass face — and the world slipped.
The candle guttered, then steadied. The same hallway stretched before her, unchanged. But when she looked down, she saw her own footprints — already there, pressed into the dust.
A sound rose behind her: creak… creak…
She turned, heart pounding. The clock began to tick again, slow and hollow.
One hour.
One loop.
Each step an echo of the last.
Therapy Bits 
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