The Broken Clock

Last Sunday, I helped my mother clean the attic.

The attic was dark, dusty, and very quiet.

Old boxes and books were sitting under the roof.

I was looking for my mother's old photo album.

Then I saw a big clock in the corner.

It was a tall wooden clock with golden hands.

The clock was not moving at all.

Its hands pointed to three o'clock and stopped there.

I touched the cold glass with one finger.

Dust covered the old face of the clock.

"This clock is broken," I said to myself.

I opened the small glass door in front.

I slowly turned the golden hands with my hand.

Suddenly, the clock made a low, deep sound.

The whole room started shaking around me.

The walls were bending like water in a river.

I felt dizzy and closed my eyes tight.

A bright light was growing behind the clock.

My ears were ringing, and my heart raced.

"What is happening to me?" I shouted loudly.

The floor under my feet felt very soft.

I could not stand, so I fell down.

Then everything became quiet and completely dark.

When I opened my eyes, the attic was gone.