The old clock tower in the village square ticked with a ponderous rhythm, each chime a tiny hammer blow on the anvil of time. Elara, perched on a window seat in her grandfather’s dusty bookshop, watched the shadows lengthen across the cobblestones, each one tracing a familiar path. She was a creature of habit, her days marked by the scent of aged paper and the murmuring stories that seemed to breathe from the spines of the ancient tomes surrounding her. But lately, a restlessness had begun to stir within her, a quiet hum that resonated with the rhythm of the