The clock tower's gears gnashed like glass between old teeth. As Ayla stepped onto Lucas' shoulder pauldron to reach the dusty oak beam, exhaust heat from his spinal vents scalded her ankles—same rhythm as his breathing when swapping her painkillers in studio vents at fifteen. The time capsule's copper box nestled in the cuckoo clock niche, its eroded wax seal fractures forming her rebirth surgery date.
(Prying open the lid released pine and iron stench—her mother's lab antiseptic)
Faded ink bled through the letter. Fifteen-year-old Lucas' childish script chilled her spine:
"Ayla smashed her seventh Thorn Wolf today. Post-rebirth clavicle bolt will bleed in storms—prepare gauze. Final words, June 12, 2003"
The date Odile declared her "betrayal".
"You call me pre-programmed..." Lucas tapped the box's interior with metallic knuckles, ejecting an iris-petal USB. "...Now believe? I've seen time's wrinkles since birth."
Eric's laughter dripped through gear teeth, watch chain snaring pendulum ropes: "At ten, he predicted the lord's death at dinner. Lady Odile tripled his memory blockers."
Ayla pressed the letter to his weeping scar. Tea stains revealed chemical formulae matching Eric's daily chamomile brew. Pendulum shadows swept Lucas' face—teenage him stuffing painkiller boxes into the capsule, each pill micro-engraved with irises.
(The USB clicked into his watch face, halting all gears)
Holograms bloomed: twenty-year-old Odile in nurse trainee uniform, dripping cerulean serum into an incubator labeled "Subject 21: Reverse Growth"—same code as Ayla's rebirth suite.
"Your pulse..." Lucas gripped her wrist. "...syncs with pendulum error margin at 0.03 seconds."
The watch chain snapped. Gear shards formed her mother's floating script: "He loved you in every timeline" as Odile's sneer oozed from rusted cuckoo beak: "Touching...but this is the 207th failed copy."
Copper layers erupted in light. Ayla's hand blistered, subcutaneous timelines glowing—each marking Lucas' interventions during her rebirth. A crimson flare at June 12, 2003 03:00 read: "0% Survival Rate"
(Lucas covered the scar with his gear-patterned prosthetic)
The cuckoo spat half a wax seal stamped with Eric's fingerprint. The tower tilted, gears spinning counterclockwise. Weightless, Ayla grabbed copper debris edged with ten-year-old Lucas' scrawl: "They monitor through my retinas—don't believe any future visions, especially mine"
As Odile's perfume surged through floor cracks, Ayla understood—Lucas' storm-night disappearances were him editing doomed timelines. Now his mechanical heart pulsed in sync with her anesthesia drip from rebirth day.