The Clock Without Hands

Every day after school, Jun passed the same old clock hanging in the hallway near the art room. Its hands had fallen off long ago, but no one had taken it down. It was frozen in place, stuck in a time it no longer told.

Most students didn’t notice it anymore. It had become background—a part of the building like the chipped tiles and humming lights. But Jun noticed. She noticed the way it cast a shadow on the wall, how the numbers had faded unevenly, how the absence of motion made it feel both forgotten and important.

She started sitting beneath it when school felt overwhelming. Not to be dramatic—just to breathe. There was something comforting about that broken clock. It didn’t count down. It didn’t rush. It didn’t expect anything. It just existed.

Jun began to wonder: *What if not all time needs to be measured? What if some moments are meant to just be felt, not tracked or compared?*

Her friends were busy with countdowns—college applications, test scores, part-time jobs. Jun felt all of it too, but she found herself craving stillness. Not laziness, but presence. Time not filled, but noticed. A conversation without looking at a phone. A walk without earbuds. A minute where nothing changed—except her awareness of it.

She started writing about it, just for herself. Small things: the sound of her shoes in the stairwell, the way sunlight fell through the glass at exactly 3:07, the feeling of walking past the same clock and realizing that even without hands, it still marked something—stillness. Reflection. Choice.

One day, she walked by and noticed a sticky note someone else had left beneath the clock. It read: *'Maybe this is the only clock that’s telling the truth.'*

Jun smiled. For once, she didn’t check the time. She just kept walking—aware, present, and exactly where she needed to be.