The Clockmaker’s Daughter

No one ever left Greyhill.

It was a town untouched by the speed of the outside world — tucked between foggy hills and a forest that always smelled like rain. The buildings were old, but the clocks were never wrong. Every hour, dozens of tower bells chimed in perfect harmony, like the heartbeat of something ancient and unseen.

They said it was because of Mr. Bellamy, the clockmaker.

He lived at the edge of town in a crooked little shop filled with gears, watches, and pocket clocks that ticked like whispers. No one knew how old he really was. Some said he built the town’s first clock tower. Others believed he didn’t age because he’d found a way to bend time.

But the real secret wasn’t Mr. Bellamy. It was his daughter — Eloise.

She was a quiet girl, pale as parchment, with raven-black hair always tied in braids. She rarely spoke. But she knew things. She could fix any clock with her eyes closed. People swore she could predict when someone was going to die — just by looking at the second hand on their watch.

I met her when I was twelve, the year my grandfather died.

My family had taken his old pocket watch to be repaired. The glass was cracked, and the hour hand was stuck at midnight. Mr. Bellamy was out, so Eloise greeted us. Her voice was soft and eerie.

“He died while holding it,” she said, before we told her anything.

My mother gasped. I stared at her, then at the ticking watches all around. Eloise didn’t flinch. She took the watch and walked into the back room, gears spinning around her like magic.

I never forgot that day.

Years passed. Greyhill stayed the same. No new buildings. No cell towers. No visitors. Just clocks — always ticking, always perfect.

By the time I turned twenty, I worked at the library. One afternoon, a stranger arrived. He wore a long coat, carried a briefcase, and had no patience for small-town charm.

“Government inspection,” he said. “Too many reports. A town with no internet? No time loss? Impossible.”

He asked questions. Measured things. Checked the town’s clocks and made notes. Then he knocked on the door of Bellamy’s shop.

He never came out.

People whispered that night. Some said they saw a flash of light. Others said time skipped — just for a second.

I went to the shop the next morning. It was closed. The windows were dark. But I saw Eloise standing behind the glass. She wasn’t a girl anymore.

Her hair had gone silver. Her eyes… they were tired.

She opened the door and let me in without a word.

“Where’s your father?” I asked.

She walked to the largest clock on the wall. A grandfather clock with gold trim and a dial made of crystal.

“He passed last night,” she said. “Just after midnight.”

I looked around. The room was still filled with clocks, but now they ticked out of sync — like the rhythm of the town had fractured.

“Something’s wrong,” I whispered.

Eloise nodded. “The clocks kept balance because he held time in place. Without him, it will all unwind.”

Then she reached into a drawer and pulled out a strange device — half watch, half compass. Its needle spun wildly.

“You can leave Greyhill now,” she said. “But only if you choose to forget.”

“Forget what?”

She smiled — a sad, distant smile. “Everything.”

I walked away that day. I left Greyhill behind.

Years later, I live in the city. I wear a smartwatch. I take the subway. But sometimes, at exactly midnight, I hear faint chimes in my ears — twelve perfect bells, echoing from the hills of a place I can’t quite remember.

And somewhere, deep in a shop I once visited, a girl who controls time is still listening to every tick.