Umamu looked at the jar. Inside, a single bubble of air hung motionless in a swirl of grey silt. To a Chronovore, this was a delicacy—a pure, unspent decade.
"My father is a deep-sea diver," she whispered, placing the jar on his workbench. "He went too deep. He found the 'Black Trench' where time doesn't move. He’s been standing on the ocean floor for ten years, but for him, not a second has passed. I want to buy his return." Corandcrank Umamu
"If I eat this," Umamu said, his voice like grinding stones, "I will have to give him ten years of my own animation. I will become a statue for a decade while he walks the surface. Are you asking me to die for a season so he may live?" Umamu looked at the jar
"No," Elara said, her eyes wet. "I’m asking you to remember what it’s like to be part of the world, rather than just the one who maintains it." "My father is a deep-sea diver," she whispered,
Umamu paused. For centuries, he had lived in the crank —the mechanical necessity of survival. He had forgotten the cor —the heart. He took the jar and unscrewed the lid. As the stilled time rushed into his lungs, his gears began to glow white-hot.
In the coastal city of Oros, where the ocean is made of liquid mercury and the sky is the color of a bruised plum, lived . He was not entirely a man, nor was he entirely a machine. He was a Chronovore —the last of those who eat the "lost time" of others to keep the Great Engine of the world turning.