Prompt

A single, pulsating knot of woven silence and solidified moonlight rests at the center of a vast, inverted clocktower built inside a hollowedout glacier, its structure not vertical but spiraling downward like a wound that never closed. The knot does not vibrateit remembers, emitting faint ripples of compressed time that travel not through air, but through the fabric of unspoken apologies, each ripple forming the shape of a door that was never opened. The clocktowers gears are not metalthey are layers of petrified breath, arranged in a spiral that spirals inward like a breath held too long, each cog glowing faintly with the afterimage of a phone call that never ended. Above, the ceiling is not sky

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