In the gaslit backstreets of Vermillion Row—where the cobblestones swallowed whispers and the lamplighter’s ladder always had one extra, impossible rung—there lived a myna that collected midnight confessions .
Its name was Tock-Tongue , and its feathers weren’t black but the precise shade of dried ink . Its left wing whirred with exposed brass gears, and its eyes were glass orbs with tiny pendulum irises that swung side to side like metronomes. The bird didn’t perch so much as wind down , settling in abrupt, mechanical increments.
Tock-Tongue’s mischief was precise:
— It would land on a cheating spouse’s windowsill just as the clock struck one, repeating their lover’s promises in the exact voice they’d used ten years prior
— It whispered forgotten names to amnesiacs, each syllable making their pocket watches skip a beat
— Drunks who insulted it found their tongues moving in stuttering, clockwork jerks for exactly twenty-four hours
The apothecary kept it fed with tinctures of stolen time—hourglass sand collected from broken engagements, the last chime of a dead man’s grandfather clock. In return, the bird would sometimes leave perfectly forged apologies in his ledger, written in handwriting not his own.
Then the constable made his fatal mistake—he shot at Tock-Tongue with his service revolver.
The bullet struck the bird’s brass wing…
…and every clock in Vermillion Row shattered backward , gears unspooling like furious snakes. The constable’s own heartbeat stuttered into a sick, syncopated rhythm as Tock-Tongue landed on his shoulder and whispered:
"Let’s discuss what really happened to your predecessor."
By dawn, the constable stood motionless in the town square, his limbs frozen at odd angles, his mouth opening and closing in perfect quarter-hour intervals. The apothecary swears he can still hear the man’s voice— but only when passing the broken clock tower at 3:17 AM exactly.
As for Tock-Tongue?
Check your shadow at high noon. If it ticks, he’s listening.