Written by Hannah Xu from Massachusetts, USA Time has no spine here. It slumps, exhausted, spilling itself across bone and branch, its face drooping under the weight of remembrance. These clocks — they are not keepers of time, but witnesses to decay, to the quiet betrayal of routine and consistency. A tree grows from stone but bears no leaves, only the ghost of cycles that once made sense. In the corner, a face — if it is a face — sleeps without sleeping, its features slippin
