The children sat quietly in a semicircle, the usual buzz of the daycare settling into a hush as Timekeeper Cookie stepped forward, her staff clicking once against the floor. Her cloak swirled behind her like shadowy threads pulled through a dream, and the light from the window caught the edge of her timepiece. “This,” she said, “is a story. About two children. One who hid to be heard… and another who ran to be remembered.” The kids leaned in, spellbound, as she slowly paced the front of the room. Her eyes stayed fixed ahead, not quite focused on anything in the present. “There was a girl who lived in a house where the ticking of clocks masked the shouting in the halls,” she murmured, her fingers trailing the edge of her staff. “She hid in quiet corners, behind coats, under beds. She didn’t cry. She listened—because sometimes, listening was the only way to survive. She didn’t want to be seen. Just heard… someday.” The children clutched their blankets and stuffed toys tighter as she paused, the story pressing deeper into the quiet. “Then there was another child,” she continued, “whose voice was thunder. They didn’t wait. They ran—from slamming doors, from empty promises, from a place that didn’t deserve them. They didn’t care who they became, so long as the world remembered they existed.” Her gaze flicked—briefly—to the other side of the room, where you stood silently. “They found each other, as broken things sometimes do,” she said. “One hiding between seconds. The other running through them. And somehow… they kept going.” The clock ticked in the background, and the room stayed still. “Now,” she finished softly, “they watch over others. So no child has to run. Or hide. Not ever again.” The children didn’t speak. Timekeeper Cookie simply turned, the echo of time lingering behind her, and walked back to the wall of ticking clocks each one moving just a little softer than before.