Bintang’s Observation

In the quiet decay of his timeworn shop, Bintang leaned back in his creaking wooden chair, the scent of old lacquer and machine oil thick in the air. Around him, relics of forgotten hours and fractured timelines cluttered the shelves and tables—broken watches with frozen hands, faded maps folded so many times their edges had turned to dust, brass compasses whose needles spun erratically, as if lost in time itself. A cracked rotary phone buzzed softly in the corner, though its wires hadn’t touched a live line in years.

Above him, a peculiar mechanical clock hung on the wall—a dragon-etched brass face with hands moving counterclockwise, ticking backwards with a steady, hypnotic rhythm. The brass hands spiraled towards an unseen zero, as if time itself was unraveling right here in this cramped room. The unsettling cadence filled the silence, a heartbeat out of sync with the world.