Clock of the talk

Previously

…He looked at the Clockwork Croaker, its form dissolving, its essence scattering like dust on the wind. It was gone, but its legacy remained, etched into the very fabric of this broken world. The nine mine rhymes had done their work. They had shone, they had slithered, they had stained. And now, they were all that was left. Lew stood alone on the groaning dock, a silent testament to the Croaker’s final, devastating song, the echo of its fragmented rhymes a permanent, chilling lullaby in the stillness.