The Clockmaker’s Secret

Prague, 1875

The clock ticked on mercilessly in the corner, clanging out off the stone walls of the workshop. Jakub Vorel leaned over the old pocket watch, his black-stained hands, his furrowed forehead, a picture of concentration. It was a work of art—gold-cased, engraved with rampant lion—but something was wrong.

He tilted the watch into the lamplight. Under the winding stem, something bright protruded - a spark of brass betraying a seam too fine to be ornamental. Jakub's heart was racing.

With the fine pick reserved for the most sensitive of gears, he inserted slowly. A hidden hinge creaked open, revealing a thin, crumpled letter and a fingernail-sized key.

He unfolded the desiccated parchment. The letters were faded, but legible.

"To whoever finds this:

The machine was built in silence, buried in time, and powered by secrets.

If you have eyes to see, the fall of the throne resonates just under your feet.

— A."

Jakub sat back, stunned. The watch had come this morning by a messenger who had said nothing but that it belonged to a recently deceased noble. No name. No return address.

He turned the key over in his palm. What device? What throne?

Late at night, when his master Oldřich Novak retired to bed, Jakub crept into the storage room above the workshop. The loft was thick with dust and looked down on rubbish, but Jakub's curiosity led him towards a cabinet which Novak flatly forbade him touching.

The key fitted perfectly.

Inside: blueprints. Dozens of them, rolled and bound in twine. One of them seemed to catch his eye—a drawing of St. Wenceslas Tower, but with strange inner mechanisms never seen in the real tower. Comments scripted the borders in Novak's work: "Observe. Record. Repeat."

Jakub's breathing caught up.

He ripped down the stairs, cornering Novak under the lamplight.

"You knew."

Novak's eyes, black and dangled heavy, narrowed. "So you found out."

"What is it? What's in the tower?"

"A machine," Novak whispered. "Made with good intentions. A clockwork recorder. To record movement in the court—no ears, no eyes. Just gears. They thought it would keep out treason."

"And did it?"

"No. It created it."

Novak told the story as if it were a confession. He and three other artisans had been contracted by a secret branch of the government years ago. They built the device inside St. Wenceslas Tower—hidden behind multiple layers of false stonework and powered by the large pendulum clock above.

It monitored footsteps, voices, meetings. Then it began to "hear" things it wasn't meant to. Private dissent. Infidelities. Secret affiliations.

One of the nobles, Count Jan Vilem, stumbled upon its existence and threatened to expose it. Days later, he was found dead in the Vltava River. Officially, he died. Unofficially—silenced.

"I left the project after that," Novak said. "I hid the plans. But if that watch has turned up… someone needs the device back."

Jakub could not sleep. The tick of clocks sounded menacing. He knew he had to burn the plans. Instead, at sunrise, he removed them—and the key—and departed silently.

St. Wenceslas Tower stood deserted. The door to the clockwork mechanism was locked, but Jakub ascended the scaffolding, the blueprints guiding him there. Behind the illusory wall, he found it.

An enormous brass engine filled the tower’s heart, gears spinning with ghostly grace. A long cylinder lined with parchment rotated steadily, its thin arm inscribing a constant stream of squiggles—movement patterns. It was still recording.

Jakub approached, awestruck. Until he heard footsteps.

A man in a dark coat emerged from the shadows. His voice was smooth. Familiar.

“You’re Novak’s apprentice. Smart boy.”

Jakub backed away. “You’re one of them.”

“I’m the last one. And I’m here to restart it. History needs guidance.”

Jakub’s mind raced. He had only seconds. With a sharp twist, he pulled the governor from the gear system. The machine screamed—metal grinding on metal—and shuddered to a halt.

“You fool!” the man lunged, but Jakub ducked, swinging the blueprint tube. The man stumbled. Jakub bolted, vanishing into the morning mist.

By the time he returned, Novak had departed. His room was stripped bare, with the exception of a single note:

"Some machines should never be repaired. You must decide which."

Jakub stood in the quiet of the workshop. The clocks just kept ticking on, unaware of the secrets they once held. He opened the watch once more. The letter remained there. So did the key.

He lit a match and burned the blueprints.

But he kept the watch.

Just in case.

-Amzad Rahid