They say the place has no daylight—

only corners swallowed by forgotten hours.

 

He was not born, but constructed, between walls.

They call him The Bone Clock.

 

He speaks in gestures,

each movement a fragment of a forbidden choreography,

each pose a ripple in time’s spine.

 

His garment is stitched from broken oaths.

His shoulder holds the past.

His hem brushes against nothingness.

 

The red object is his language—

a bone flute, a ritual compass, a scar in plastic form.

 

The goat is the last witness.

The forest, a collapsed cathedral.

The wooden wreckage, an altar never lit.

 

No one knows where he comes from.

But whenever he appears,

the edges of the world shiver.

 

Even time… seems to fear him.