*The Clockmaker's Promise*

In a quiet town nestled between rolling hills and a slow-moving river, there stood a small shop with a crooked sign that read “Timeless Hands.” Inside, the air was warm and still, filled with the soft, steady rhythm of ticking clocks. Wall clocks, pocket watches, mantel clocks—they all chimed and clicked in quiet harmony, each keeping time in its own way.

The man who lived among them was Mr. Yousaf, an old clockmaker with gentle hands and tired eyes. For over fifty years, he had listened to the language of springs and gears, learning to hear the difference between a clock that was merely broken and one that had given up.

But in the far corner of the shop, there was one clock that never made a sound.

It was a tall grandfather clock, carved from dark walnut, its face marked with delicate Roman numerals and hands of aged gold. Once, it had stood proudly in the center of the room, counting the years of a shared life. Mr. Yousaf and his wife, Nabila, had built it together when they were young—laughing, measuring, sanding wood until their fingers ached. They had promised each other it would tick through every joy and sorrow they faced.

And it did—until the day she died.

After that, the clock stopped. Not because it was broken, but because no one wound it. No one dared.

Mr. Yousaf kept fixing other people’s timepieces, but he never touched his own.

*

One afternoon, during a quiet rain, the shop door creaked open. A boy stepped in, shivering slightly, holding a small wristwatch wrapped in a faded cloth.

“It was my father’s,” he said. “It stopped the day he left. I don’t know if it can be fixed.”

Mr. Yousaf took the watch, opened it with a practiced hand, and peered inside. “It’s not broken,” he said softly. “Just waiting.”

The boy—Sami—came back every day after school. At first, he just sat on the wooden stool, watching in silence. But slowly, he began to speak.

“Do clocks feel things?” he asked one afternoon.

Mr. Yousaf looked up. “Not like we do. But sometimes, they hold memories. And that can make them heavy.”

Sami nodded, as if he understood.

Then one day, he pointed to the silent clock in the corner. “Why don’t you fix that one?”

Mr. Yousaf paused, his fingers resting on a tiny gear. “Because some things aren’t fixed with tools,” he said.

Sami tilted his head. “Maybe it’s not broken. Maybe it’s just waiting for someone to care again.”

The words settled into the room like dust after a breeze—soft, but impossible to ignore.

*

The next morning, before the sun rose, Mr. Yousaf stood before the grandfather clock. He wiped the dust from its face with a cloth that still smelled faintly of lavender—Nabila’s favorite. His hands shook as he opened the back panel. The gears were stiff, the spring long unwound, but nothing was broken.

He worked slowly, carefully. Adjusted a tooth here, cleaned a pivot there. Then, with a deep breath, he turned the key and gave the spring a gentle wind. He nudged the pendulum.

A pause.

Then—

Tick.

A second passed.

Tock.

The sound filled the room like a long-forgotten song.

Sami arrived later and froze in the doorway. “It’s… it’s working.”

Mr. Yousaf didn’t answer. He simply placed his hand over his chest, feeling the steady beat beneath.

From then on, the shop changed. Not the clocks—him. He laughed a little more. Stayed up a little later. Taught Sami how to listen to the heartbeat of a watch, how to tell when a spring still had hope.

When Sami left for school, he hugged Mr. Yousaf tightly. “You fixed my dad’s watch,” he said. “But I think you fixed something else too.”

Mr. Yousaf smiled. “We fixed each other.”

Years passed. The clocks kept ticking. The shop stayed open.

And in the corner, the old grandfather clock counted every hour—not just of time, but of healing, of memory, of love that never truly stops