The Clockwork Witness In a forest where the mist never quite lifted, there lived a small wooden robot who did not know who built him. He stood no taller than the ferns, his body carved from old timber, his joints ticking softly with each careful movement. Moss had claimed his shoulders, threading green life through the seams of his metal heart. The forest did not fear him. It had simply… adopted him. Each morning, he walked the narrow path beside the stream, listening to the hum of water over stone. He could not remember a beginning, but he had learned the language of small things — the patience of trees, the secrets of fog, the rhythm of beetle feet tapping across his wooden brow. One day, he discovered a single hibiscus blooming where sunlight slipped through the canopy. Its petals glowed like a sunrise he could not quite recall. He returned to it daily, standing quietly, gears whirring in thoughtful hush. After a night of heavy rain, he watch...
