The Clockmaker’s Son

In a narrow alley tucked behind the central plaza of Elmridge, there sat a clock shop that never seemed open yet was always ticking. Dusty windows displayed ancient timepieces: ornate cuckoo clocks, pocket watches from a forgotten century, and grand brass pendulums frozen in mid-swing. The sign above the door read simply, “Morren Timeworks.”Inside, amidst the scattered cogs and faded blueprints, lived an old man named Elias Morren and his son, Leo. Elias was a master clockmaker, once renowned throughout the country. Now, he hardly ever emerged from his workshop. Townsfolk whispered that grief had stolen his voice after Leo's mother died and that the old man now spoke only to the machines he crafted. Leo, fifteen, thin and clever, spent most of his days oiling gears, repairing springs, and sketching designs in a notebook he always kept in his pocket. He rarely went to school anymore; the headmaster had stopped asking after the third time Leo dismantled the classroom clock just to see if he could make it chime backwards. But Leo wanted more than gears and pendulums. He wanted answers. His father never spoke of the past. Not about the war that gave him a limp. Not about the strange books locked in the attic. And especially not about the covered grandfather clock in the back room—shrouded in velvet and bound with a brass chain. The key to its casing dangled from Elias’s neck, and he never took it off. One stormy evening, while lightning flashed and rain hit the rooftops like marching boots, Leo found his father asleep at his workbench. The key glinted against Elias’s chest, rising and falling with each shallow breath. Temptation whispered louder than thunder. Leo crept into the back room and stared at the forbidden clock. Its shape was different—taller, more angular, with odd symbols etched into the frame. With trembling hands, he took the key from around his father's neck, careful not to wake him. He slid the key into the clock’s lock. With a soft click, the chain fell away. Leo lifted the velvet cover. The clock’s face was not numbered. Instead, it bore twelve small mirrors arranged in a circle. Each one shimmered faintly, as though catching light from somewhere else. The hands didn’t move, yet Leo felt a humming deep in his chest, as if the room had shifted. He reached out and turned the minute hand. The mirrors shimmered. He turned it further. A sound like wind filled the room, though the windows were shut. The ticking grew louder, then stopped entirely. And suddenly, he was not alone. A woman stood behind him. Not ghostly. Not imagined. Real. Her eyes were green, her hair tied in a familiar braid. Her hands trembled as she reached out.“Leo?” she whispered. His mouth went dry. “Mom?” She rushed forward and hugged him fiercely, desperately. But before he could ask anything—how, why, where—another figure burst through the doorway. “Don’t touch her!” Elias roared, his voice strong and terrible. Leo stepped back, stunned. “You… you can talk?” The old man ignored him. “She’s not real. Not anymore. You opened the clock.” Leo looked at his mother—her face now flickering, shimmering like the mirrors. “She’s real! She knows me!” “She’s a memory,” Elias said, eyes softening. “I built the clock to hold onto her. To speak of the past. But it isn’t safe, Leo. Time isn’t meant to run backwards.” The woman’s image began to fade, her arms empty, her smile sad. “Let me go, my love,” she said to Elias. “You promised.” Elias bowed his head. “I know.” He stepped forward and gently turned the minute hand back. The wind fell silent. The room was still. Leo stood, trembling, staring at the mirrors now gone dark. “I wanted to know the truth,” he whispered. Elias placed a hand on his son’s shoulder. “And you do. But truth always costs something.” They stood there for a long while, two clockmakers in a room where time had stopped. Outside, the storm passed, and morning light began to trickle through the cracks of the old wooden shutters.