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As I walked toward it, light from a small window on the right fluctuated. Probably clouds, passing across the sun. I think I felt colder. Or maybe it was warmer? I’m not sure, but there was definitely something weird about the temperature. I got to the door and the first thing I noticed was how absolutely clean it was. Not a speck of dust on it. I had never seen a less detailed door, and this one was stark in its simplicity. I began to fidget. What was I doing? The door couldn’t be opened. There was no girl, just my imagination -- right? No, I couldn’t believe that. She looked too smart, too independent, to be any imaginary friend of mine. The brass of the handle seemed to touch my fingertips before I could even reach for it, and I swear there were sparks. A chill ran down my spine and through my limbs, causing me to shiver as the room darkened. I pulled my hand away and stared at the door, only to realize that it had swung open a few inches. With as much courage as I could muster, I pushed it the rest of the way and walked in. It was strange, surreal. Light diffused softly into the room, casting shadows into the gears. There was a moment of silence before I could hear the grinding of the clock’s organs, and a dull ringing in my ears. I hopped the four steps into the room, and walked out the door on my left: the door that led to the balcony. Would she be there now? I hadn’t seen her on my way in; would she have appeared in the minutes between now, and then? I stepped onto the balcony and there she was. I startled her, I think. She whirled around so quickly, eyes so wide. So confused, so surprised. I didn’t know what to say. But she did. “You -- you’re the one who saw me. You saw me! You opened the door!” I was still speechless. She was prettier than I expected, and her voice was like music, like an orchestra, like a symphony, like . . .like . . . . She touched my hand, excited. “Your name, it’s William, isn’t it?” William. It felt as though I’d heard it for the first time. Like I had no identity, no existence before she spoke it with her silver tongue. I swallowed, an attempt to ease my suddenly dry throat. “Yes . . .it is. How do you know?” She giggled. “Can’t you tell? Listen,” she whispered, leaning forward, “you can hear the world from here!” That was the day I met Rysia. # I soon learned that, while in the tower, you couldn’t exactly hear the whole world, you could hear anything within the school, if you focused on it. Even more intriguing was the blanket of silence around the tower. Everything was a murmur, background noise; even the groaning of the clock’s gears was quiet unless you listened. Rysia gave me a demonstration that very day, concentrating first on the Quad, until she could hear every voice and every breath. Then she taught me, using a funny conversation between an old man and his obstinate daughter to help direct my attention. After that, we trained our minds on a tree in the garden. Neither of us understood bird-language, but it was entertaining nonetheless. I left that day feeling light, happy. She was quite a girl, this Rysia, and I kept sneaking into the tower to meet with her. My friends became curious when I disappeared at lunch, and my parents concerned when I stayed late at school. But I found myself infatuated with her big, dark eyes and silky, black hair. Her small, perfect mouth enchanted me with every word and I loved the way her button nose crinkled when she laughed. Thus began my fall for the girl in the clock tower. I had forgotten that no one else could see her. I had forgotten that she might not be real.
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