The Clockwork Sparrow

In a grand city where everything was automated—cars drove themselves, meals cooked at the press of a button, and even stories were written by machines—a small sparrow named Iko fluttered from street to street, searching for a place to belong.

One day, he landed on the shoulder of Master Gibran, an old watchmaker who still crafted clocks by hand. Unlike the towering digital screens and holographic billboards, his clocks ticked and tocked, each gear moving in harmony, shaped by human touch.

“You are a rare sight,” Gibran said, watching Iko. “A real bird in a world of drones.”

Iko chirped. “I need a home, but no one wants something natural anymore. Even birdsongs are played by speakers now.”

Gibran smiled and reached for a small wooden clock. Inside, the gears were arranged in a way that mimicked the rhythm of a bird’s heartbeat. “This is what they call outdated. But sometimes, the old ways hold something the new ones cannot replace.”

That night, as the city slept under the hum of automation, Iko sang. His song wasn’t perfect, nor was it programmed to be. But it was real. And one by one, people stopped to listen.

By morning, Gibran’s shop had visitors—not to buy his clocks, but to hear the last real sparrow sing.

Moral:

In a world of automation, authenticity is the rarest treasure.