Clock of the talk

Previously

…The Croaker’s ticking seemed to falter, a momentary stutter in its relentless beat. A small victory, perhaps. But the dock remained, a broken, skeletal finger pointing towards the dark water. And the Croaker’s song, though momentarily disrupted, was still there, a sinister whisper on the wind. My tune was still lost, and the night was still young. The rhythm had changed, but the dance was far from over.