Cogsworth spread all seventeen notebooks across the floor of his workshop and began plotting every single sighting on his largest map. Hours passed. His fingers traced lines between dates and locations, each one a thread in a pattern he'd been chasing for months. Then he saw it. Every sighting, when marked by the day it occurred, pointed back to one moment in time. Four months ago. A single day when the clocks had begun appearing. He grabbed his coat and headed for the ridge. His copper-domed shed stood at the base, glass panels reflecting the morning light. Inside, he pulled down his charts and marked the convergence date in red ink across the top. If everything started on one day, the source had to have opened then. It had to still be there. Outside the shed, the observation well waited. Brass markers lined its stone rim, each one pointing to a documented sighting location. Cogsworth walked the circle, counting. Forty-seven clocks in four months. All within twelve miles. All after that single day. He stopped at the marker facing due east and squinted toward the ridge. That's when he heard the ticking. Deep and steady, coming from the bog below the ridge. He followed the sound through marsh grass and standing water until he found it. A massive clock, half-submerged, brass gears turning behind a cracked face. Moss covered its surface. Water pooled at its base. It was old. Far older than four months. Cogsworth knelt in the mud and pressed his hand against the wet brass. This wasn't a clock that had appeared. This was a clock that had always been here. Waiting.