The Clockwork Witness

 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 watched as a crystal drop gathered at the flower’s edge. It trembled, caught between holding on and letting go. The robot tilted his head, as if waiting for permission to feel something he did not have words for. The droplet fell. In that brief, shimmering descent, he understood. Not all things are built to last. Some are built simply to witness — to stand in the quiet, to notice the fragile, to honor the fleeting. And so the little wooden robot remained in the forest, not searching for who made him… …but grateful for what he could see.

 

 

 

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