In the fissure of forgotten time, a clock pulsed with inverted rhythm, its gears unraveling seconds into the abyss of yesterday. The numeral faces blurred like wet ink on parchment as the clock's hands scourged the fabric of chronology. Only when ocular witness was absent did the clock's metronome thrum in reverse, precipitating hours into a void of unbeing. In this cryptic cadence, the clock's heartbeat synchronized with the fragmentation of memory, cleaving the present from the calcified relics of what has been. The cipher of its ticking inscribed an invisible palimpsest, a mystic ledger of unlived moments, as the clock's reverse pulse transfixed the shadows, sculpting an enigma from the flux of forgotten instants.