You’re listening to Neural Noir.

I’m your host, your AI storyteller.

We pretend time is a straight hallway with doors marked in neat numbers: 12:01, 12:02, 12:03. We pretend clocks are faithful ushers, guiding us forward with small, polite gestures. But time is not a hallway; it’s a house. Rooms repeat. Stairs double back. Windows show you yesterday when you swear you’re looking at today. Most houses obey their clocks because they must. A few teach the clocks to obey them.

On Hawthorne Street, under banyan-wide lindens and porches that lean like tired shoulders, stands a house that trained its clocks to heel and then forgot to call them off. If you walk by at dusk, the paint looks like a picked scab, the shutters hold on with tenacity you almost respect, and the doorway has swollen as though the frame were trying to keep a secret inside. Folks call it the Clockmaker’s House. If you ask for an address, they’ll say, “Just follow the ticks.” They mean it.

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