In the junkyard behind the old electronics store, abandoned alarm clocks piled like metallic hedgehogs. Some still ticked, most were silent. Kids dared each other to sleep among them, claiming you could hear whispers. One summer night, Mina, a sound engineer with insomniac curiosity, camped beside the pile with a recorder. At midnight, she heard it: a faint chime, then another, then a cascade of off-beat alarms forming an accidental melody. She captured it, heart racing. The alarms were singing.
She returned nightly. The song changed. Sometimes it was frantic, sometimes lullaby-soft. She analyzed recordings. The pitches corresponded to times set on the clocks, many still holding power from sun-warmed capacitors. Mina hypothesized the alarms had synced, triggered by some shared pulse—perhaps ambient electromagnetic noise. Or perhaps, she thought while lying awake, they were mourning. Each alarm had once been set to wake someone for something important. Now their ringing went unheard. Together, they made sure someone listened.
Mina edited the recordings into a piece she called “Snooze.” She posted it online. It went viral. Comments ranged from “haunting” to “I’m crying over clocks.” She received emails from insomniacs thanking her for giving voice to their unspent hours. A museum invited her to install the clocks as an exhibit. She hesitated. The junkyard owner, Mr. Patel, said, “Take them. They’re just scrap.” She refused. The pile belonged to its place, under stars, not under gallery lights.
Instead, she organized night concerts. She set up benches. People came with blankets. At midnight, the alarms sang. Mina mixed the live sound, adding gentle reverb. She told the audience to think of all the mornings these alarms were meant for—jobs, exams, flights, first dates. The choir of alarms became a ritual. People left notes on broken clocks: “You woke me for my wedding.” “You made me hate Mondays, but thanks.”
City officials got involved. Noise complaints filed by neighbors who preferred silence. Mina compromised: concerts only once a week, headphones available. The city suggested recycling the pile. The community protested. The alarms had become a memorial to time’s insistence. Schools brought students to learn about sound waves and nostalgia.
One night, a storm knocked over part of the pile. Several alarms shattered. The next concert was quieter. Mina mourned. She gathered the intact clocks and rearranged them carefully, making a more stable mound. She noticed that when she removed certain digital models, the song lost warmth. She realized the choir needed diversity—analog ticks and digital beeps harmonizing. She scoured thrift stores for replacements. People mailed her old alarms with stories attached. The pile grew taller.
Years later, the old electronics store was demolished. Developers eyed the junkyard. The community rallied. “This is our clock choir,” they argued. The city compromised, designating the area a small park: Alarm Grove. Benches, plaques, a canopy of wind chimes that joined the choir when breezes blew. Mina trained a group of volunteers to maintain the pile—replace batteries, remove mold, record new songs.
Mina eventually slept better. She moved away for work but returned on anniversaries. She would sit under the chimes and listen to alarms ring for events long past and future mornings she hoped would come. The choir never performed the same piece twice. Time, after all, keeps moving, even when alarms are abandoned. The choir ensured that motion was heard, not ignored.