Chapter 10: The Ticking Clocks

Allison stood at the sign for a long time.

Welcome home, Sparkkeeper.

The words glowed in the living ink, warm and patient. The ocean stretched out beyond the boardwalk, turquoise blue, crystal clear, and glassy. The carnival pulsed behind her: calliope music, twinkling lights, teddy bears in aprons. Sol stood beside her, golden eyes steady, waiting for her to be ready.

She wasn't ready. She wasn't sure what she was getting into, but she knew, whatever it was, she wasn't ready. So many questions flooded her mind, jumbling together like a 15-car pile-up on I-30. If she didn't start letting them out, she would choke on them. She turned away from the sign as she took a breath that wavered only slightly on the way in.

"Okay," she said. "Walk and talk with me, you two, because I need answers. I'm tired of riddles. What I need is actual information. Can you do that?"

Sol inclined their head; Thimble patted Allison's shin. "We can try," they said in unison.

"Good. Okay. Start with what you meant by 'time is running out.' Because that's the kind of thing people say in movies right before everything goes to crap, and I'd really like to know from which direction the crap is coming."

They began walking. The boardwalk faded in the distance behind them—wooden planks gave way to the pale mosaic path winding back toward the central hub. Thimble trotted alongside them, saying little, her eyes watchful, letting Sol do the heavy lifting. The carnival lights dimmed as the trio walked further down the walkway. Now the central hub glowed softly with firefly sparkles, and glowing stones embedded in the path lit their way.

Sol walked in silence for a few steps, choosing their words with the same mechanical precision they used for everything else.

"The Dreamspace was designed to be entered slowly," they said. "Gradually. Over time. An awakening Sparkkeeper is supposed to be guided—like learning to swim. You start in the shallows. You build strength. You go deeper as you are ready."

"And mine wasn't like that."

"No. Yours was more like being dumped into the deep end while you were asleep."

"Twice," Allison interjected.

"Twice," Sol confirmed. "And each time, the portal opened wider, faster, without the usual stabilization and without the gentle invitation that would usually occur. The Dreamspace responded as it should, but too quickly. If this keeps happening, the strain will keep growing."

Allison frowned. "So the Dreamspace is... unstable? Because of me?"

"Not you. It needs you. It is because of the speed," Sol said carefully. "Not something you have or have not done. You are supposed to be here. You did not cause this. Your spark is strong, Allison. Stronger than most. Stronger than you realize, but strength without structure creates strain, and the strain is stressing the protective barrier around us," Sol points upward to a glistening, clear structure overhead with a slight glow and shifting color, "to a point where the Dreamspace may not hold."

As they reentered the central area, Allison noticed something she hadn't before. The air smelled different. It didn't smell like home or the seaside perfume that had followed her for the last few days. It was strange, new. It crept in at the edges of her awareness—subtle at first, barely there, easy to dismiss. Ozone. Sharp and metallic. The way the air smells just before a thunderstorm breaks, when the sky goes heavy and yellow, and every animal on the planet knows to find shelter. But layered underneath was something else—stale and dissonant. The odor was wrong, out of place. It was the kind of smell that makes the hair on your arms stand up before your brain can register it. She shivered as the smell reached her. Something deep in her gut warned her that trouble was close.

"Do you smell that?" she asked, scrunching her face at the odor.

Sol's golden eyes dimmed slightly. "Yes."

"What is it?"

"Barrier stress," Sol said quietly. "Dreamspace is no longer at optimal parameters. Something is pushing against the protective shield around us, trying to breach it."

Before Allison could ask what that meant, she looked up and saw it.

Allison paused for a second and looked up more closely; beyond the tree branches and firefly trails, a crack ran along the canopy like a fissure in ice. It started in the distance and stretched toward them, jagged and thin, yet clear against the soap-bubble iridescence. As she watched, another crack appeared—smaller, branching from the first like a river. Then another. Fragile patterns like spiderwebs spread outward, delicate and beautiful. Her heart filled with dread as she thought of it breaking and collapsing on top of them. She could see it all so clearly in her mind.

Plink.

The sound reached her; a second later, a long, deep, echoing groan came through Dreamspace, followed by something like a glacier breaking off chunks into the ocean below. Between the hair-raising sounds, a high, crystalline ping rang out—tiny fractures ringing like struck glass, each sound marking the cracks widening above them.

Allison's stomach dropped. She bent down, reached out instinctively, and pressed her hand to the nearest stone in the mosaic. Beneath her fingertips, she felt it—a tremor. Faint, traveling through the ground like a vibration through a tuning fork.

"Oh, my cat," she whispered.

A metallic clang echoed through the space—louder than the pings, harsher, like a bell with a cracked rim being struck too hard. The fireflies' glow overhead dimmed for a moment, as if the light itself had surged. Then it steadied. More cracks were forming, thin and dark against the iridescence, like scratches on eyeglass lenses.

"That," Sol said, their voice steady but stripped of its usual warmth, "is the sound of a shield strain. You were never meant to be introduced to your gift this way. Not without guidance. Not with Dreamspace is this broken. If our protection fails, the connection between worlds becomes unstable. You will become stuck, unable to return home."

Allison looked up at the cracks, then back at Sol. "Can it be fixed?"

"Yes. But not easily. And not quickly. The Dreamspace needs its Sparkkeeper to stabilize it. That is you, Allison. You and the Sparkkeepers who came before you built this place with your words. Your words can reinforce it.  If you cannot stabilize it soon, the damage will keep spreading until the protection above us shatters. When... if that fails, Dreamspace will fail to exist, and so will we: Thimble, me, everyone that resides here."

Allison nodded without a word, staring up as the cracks kept growing. The true gravity of their perilous situation took hold in her heart.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It began so quietly that she thought she was imagining it. A faint, rhythmic tick at the edge of her hearing—like a clock in the next room, its beats muffled by walls and distance.

Tick. Tick. Tick. 

It was steady and relentless. Then, it got louder, and she realized it was coming from inside her body.

"Do you hear that?" she asked, her voice rising. "That ticking?"

Sol nodded slowly, voice carefully neutral. "Faintly. It is loudest to you. It is part of your spark. A countdown of sorts. It marks how long the Dreamspace can keep holding this strain."

The ticking intensified. Each beat landed like a small hammer behind her temples, perfectly synchronized with her pulse but slightly off—close enough to feel connected, different enough to feel wrong. It felt like a shirt tag scratching the back of your neck, except the tag was inside her brain—an irritation she couldn't locate or remove, making the discomfort inescapable.

For Allison's sensory issues, the inescapable rhythmic sound was a nightmare. She didn't keep analog clocks that ticked because her brain would latch on to it like a parasite, becoming a source of distraction and anxiety, and making her physically uncomfortable in her own skin. This thing was a sharp, repetitive sound she couldn't locate, muffle, or escape, living inside her head.  It would break her if they couldn't shut it up soon.

She pressed her hands over her ears. It didn't help; the sound wasn't coming from outside. Her rational brain knew that, but her body didn't care. It was responding to an inescapable sensory assault the way it always did when overwhelmed: shutting down. 

Her knees buckled, and she sank to the cobblestones, curling inward, hands clamped over her ears, eyes squeezed shut. She began to rock back and forth. The ticking pounded through her palms, skull, and teeth. She felt it in her chest now, like a second heartbeat, mechanical and relentless, competing with her own.

"Make it stop," she gasped. "Please. It's so loud. I can't; it hurts."

Sol knelt beside her immediately and took both her hands. Their grip was careful, calibrated, firm enough to ground with deep, localized pressure, but gentle enough not to add to the overwhelm. Their golden eyes were close, steady, an anchor in the storm.

"Breathe," they coaxed in a grounded tone. "Your internal spark is trying to stabilize it. Your body is out of sync with Dreamspace. Your physical self and your creative self are trying to find the same rhythm. It will pass in a little bit, but you need to breathe."

She managed some deep breaths through clenched teeth.

Sol paused, weighing each word before answering. "The misalignment is not permanent. A door exists between worlds—yours and ours. The same one you have been accidentally coming through. After you sync with Dreamspace, it will either seal or break open entirely. Either outcome could permanently change Dreamspace and your life as it is now."

"That's not comforting."

"It is not meant to be. It is, however, what you asked from us: honesty. Sometimes honesty is not pretty, but we will not lie to you."

Allison let out a sound that was half sob, half laugh. "Great. Fantastic. I'm sitting on the floor of some magical world, having a meltdown because there's a clock in my head counting down to some interdimensional existential crisis. This is fine. Everything is fine."

Thimble appeared at her side and pressed her small, warm body against Allison's leg. She didn't say anything.

She just leaned in, giving deep pressure as she whispered, "I'm here. You're not alone. We'll get through this together."

Allison's breathing slowed. Sol's strong hands, Thimble's warmth and weight, and the steady, relaxed glow of the lantern mosaic beneath her gave her enough anchors to pull her back from her meltdown. The sheer force of three beings sharing the same small patch of ground held it at bay.

"You are hungry," Sol said quietly after a moment. "Overwhelmed. Overstimulated. Restabilization is hungry business, according to Thimble. She always comes back ravenous. Apparently, this happens sometimes, especially when you are abruptly moved through the portal and get stuck. "

"Stuck? I got stuck?" Allison opened her eyes, still sitting on the cobblestones and petting Thimble like a cat.

"You were in the portal longer than you realize," Sol said gently. "Your body clock knows what time it is, even if the Dreamspace clock does not. When did you last eat?"

Allison thought about it. The sandwich at The Jagged Cliff was so many hours ago. I don't even think I ate dinner. Was it last night, or is it still tonight? What day is it? A whole other world ago. Her stomach, as if suddenly remembering it existed, let out a growl so loud it echoed off the crystalline canopy above them.

"That is what I thought," Sol said.

Right on cue, a sound rang out from somewhere behind the nearest patch of blue luminous ferns—a cheerful, bustling clatter, followed by the unmistakable squeak of small wheels on cobblestone. Then a voice—warm, melodic, lightly accented, and radiating the specific energy of someone who has strong opinions about whether you've eaten today.

"¡Ay, Dios mío! ¿Otra vez? Every time, it's the same thing. They don't eat! They don't take snacks! Nobody nourishes before portal time! What is wrong with everyone in this place? You'd think a little sustenance was too much to ask, but noooo—"

From behind the ferns, an Armadillo emerged, rolling a small, brightly painted cart that looked like a miniature taco truck.

He was about the size of a large cat, standing upright on his hind legs, with a posture suggesting he had somewhere important to be and was already running late. His shell—that distinctive, armored plating that covered his back and sides—shimmered with an iridescent rainbow sheen that shifted colors as he moved: deep violet to emerald green to burnt orange to electric blue, like an oil slick on water, but beautiful. It reminded her of the mother-of-pearl inlay of her guitar's fretboard.

His underside was softer—a warm, sandy tan, covered in fine fur that looked like a minky blanket. His long, tapered snout twitched constantly, sniffing the air with the rapid-fire precision of a creature who navigated the world primarily through smell. His eyes were like small, black beads. The skin around his eyes crinkled at the corners with a permanent expression of amused exasperation, as if the universe were a mildly disappointing restaurant. He was the only one who knew the food could be better.

A tiny apron—handmade and embroidered with chili peppers and marigolds—was tied around his middle, lightly dusted with flour. His front paws were dexterous and quick, moving as he talked, gesturing broadly, pointing for emphasis, and occasionally pausing to adjust something on his cart with the efficiency of someone taught cooking by multiple generations of women in his family since he was a pup.

The cart itself was a work of art—painted in bright reds, greens, and yellows, with hand-lettered signage reading "Felipe's Tacos y Más" in cheerful cursive. Tiny string lights lined the attached awning. A small speaker inside played cumbia so faintly it was almost subliminal. The smell coming from that cart was enough to make Allison forget the ticking, the cracks, the countdown, and every other crisis competing for her attention.

Warm corn tortillas. Cilantro. Lime. Slow-cooked carne asada with a smoky, chipotle edge. Fresh salsa verde, bright and sharp. And underneath it all, the rich, deep, comforting base note of pinto beans simmered with cumin, coriander, and garlic. This perfume warmed her soul as much as it made her mouth water.

Felipe wheeled the cart to a stop beside Allison, looked her up and down with the critical eye of an abuela assessing a grandchild who hadn't been eating properly, and clucked his tongue.

"Mija," he said, shaking his head. "You look terrible. No offense."

"Thanks, I think," Allison said weakly through a wry smile.

"Ever seen a Mexican long-nosed armadillo before?" He asked. "No? No matter. I'm Felipe, by the way. Learn my name. Know it. Love it," he said, pointing to his name on the cart. "¿Cuándo fue la última vez que comiste? Er, um, no Spanish either, huh? I asked you when you last ate. Oh, well, never mind. I don't want to know. The answer is always too long ago." 

He was already moving, his small paws working with astonishing speed—pulling a warm tortilla from a cloth-covered stack, layering carne asada with practiced precision, topping it with a flourish of cilantro and onion, a squeeze of lime, a drizzle of salsa verde. He handed it to Allison immediately and began assembling a second taco before she finished the first.

He set them on a small, hand-painted plate and placed it on the ground beside her with the gravity of a doctor writing a prescription. Allison almost expected him to say "take two of these, and call me in the morning," and was almost disappointed when he didn't. Instead, he reached into the cart and produced a small clay cup—hand-formed, glazed in turquoise—filled with something creamy, cold, and sweet-smelling.

"Horchata. My abuela's recipe," he said proudly, setting it beside the plate. "Made fresh. Don't argue. Drink."

Allison stared at the plate, at the tacos, steaming gently, the lime wedge glistening beside the carne asada, the cilantro bright green against the warm tortilla. At the horchata, creamy and cool, smelling of cinnamon, rice, and vanilla. At the rainbow armadillo in the flour-dusted apron who had just emerged from the ferns with a taco cart and the bedside manner of a favorite auntie.

"I..." she started.

"Eat first," Felipe said firmly, raising one paw. "Exist second. Preguntas after. That means 'listen,' my friend. You can't save the world on an empty stomach, and you can't think straight when your blood sugar is on the floor. Eat."

Allison looked at Sol, who gave the faintest nod. She looked at Thimble, who watched the tacos with barely contained yearning. She looked back at Felipe, who had crossed his arms and tapped one hind foot with the impatience of someone who would stand here all night until she took a bite.

She picked up a taco, a new little smirk on her face.

Every taco after that, including the first, was transcendent. The tortillas were warm and soft, with that slightly charred, corn-sweet flavor that only comes from a comal seasoned by a thousand tortillas before this one. The carne asada was tender, smoky, deeply savory, with a chipotle heat that bloomed slowly on her tongue. The cilantro was bright. The lime juice she squeezed on top was sharp. The salsa verde tied everything together with a fresh, green zing that made her eyes widen.

She closed her eyes tight and let her happy, yummy-food wiggle run through her body as she made a sound somewhere between a moan and a prayer.

"Sí, that's what I thought," Felipe said, a note of satisfied pride in his voice. "Nobody argues with my tacos."

She ate every single taco on the plate in the focused, reverent silence that only truly good food commands. The horchata was cold, sweet, and grounding—cinnamon, rice milk, and vanilla, smooth as silk, the exact opposite of everything that had been happening to her brain for the last hour. She drank it slowly, feeling the sugar, the calm, and the simple pleasure of flavor settle into her body like sandbags against a flood.

The ticking in her head softened. It was still there, still counting, but a meal clearly meant to nourish not just her body but also her soul made it bearable.

"This will not fix everything," Sol said, sitting beside her now, their golden eyes soft. "But it will help. You cannot fix what needs fixing if your body is screaming for nourishment louder than your soul."

"That robot speaks the truth," Felipe said, wiping down his cart with a small towel. "Also, you should eat more often. I say this with love, mija, with my entire heart."

Allison nodded slowly. For the first time since arriving, she let herself really breathe, all the way down to her lungs. The crystalline canopy above still held its cracks. The ticking still pulsed faintly in her temples. The ozone smell still lingered at the edges. But right here, right now, sitting on a glowing mosaic with salsa verde on her fingers, horchata on her lips, and a raccoon leaning against her leg, an android holding her hand, and a rainbow armadillo cleaning his cart while humming under his breath—right here, the world wasn't ending.

Not yet, anyway.

She looked at Felipe, who was reorganizing his salsa containers with a surgeon's focus. "Thank you," she said quietly, dabbing her face with a provided napkin.

Felipe looked up. His dark eyes softened, the crinkled amusement giving way to something warmer, something genuine. "De nada. No problem, Sparkkeeper," he said. "That's what I'm here for."

Somewhere deep within Allison, beneath the fear, the confusion, the ticking countdown, and the cracks in the sky, she heard something faint but unmistakable—something she hadn't heard in a very long time. Her own voice in her mind. Reading her own words back to her. Quietly. Gently. As if reminding her that the stories she'd written in the dark had always been more than words on a page.

As the words spoke softly in her mind, fireflies from the surrounding forests came to her, swirling around her as she listened, glowing brighter with each phrase, as if every syllable brought them closer to lighting up the entire world.