Once upon a time, in a village too small for a map but too big for silence, there lived a Clockmaker named Thistle. Thistle was famous for crafting clocks so precise that even the sun checked them twice before rising. But one day, as Thistle polished the gears of a grand tower clock, a Spoon fell from the sky and landed squarely in her workshop.
"Strange," she muttered, inspecting the dented utensil. "This is not a clock part." She placed it on a shelf, intending to ignore it. But the Spoon had other plans.
At midnight, when the village slept and the clocks ticked in synchronized pride, the Spoon began to sing. Not a sweet melody, mind you, but a low, metallic clang-clang-clang that sounded like a teapot arguing with itself. Thistle, half-asleep and wholly irritated, stormed into her workshop.
"Why are you singing?" she demanded.
The Spoon wobbled slightly, as spoons often do when accused. "I sing because I cannot tick."
"You're not supposed to tick!" snapped Thistle. "You're a Spoon!"
"And yet," the Spoon replied, "I am here, among clocks. Surely that means something?"
Thistle rolled her eyes and returned to bed. But the next night, the Spoon sang again. And the night after that. The village grew restless. Farmers began planting carrots at odd angles, tailors stitched sleeves shut, and the baker started baking bread without yeast. All because the clocks began losing time, distracted by the Spoon’s relentless song.
Finally, Thistle had enough. She grabbed the Spoon and climbed the tower clock, determined to throw it into the river. But as she reached the top, the Spoon spoke one last time.
"Before you cast me away," it said, "ask yourself this: Why does a Spoon sing in the first place?"
Thistle paused. The Spoon had a point, though she hated to admit it. So instead of throwing it away, she installed the Spoon as the clock’s pendulum. The Spoon swung back and forth, no longer clanging, and the clock ticked more accurately than ever. The village, its balance restored, returned to normal—if planting straight carrots and unstitching sleeves can be called normal.
Years later, when asked about the odd pendulum in her clock, Thistle would simply shrug and say, "Sometimes, even a Spoon has its time."
The Moral (Maybe):
Not everything needs a purpose, but sometimes it finds one anyway. Or maybe clocks are overrated. Who's to say?