The Clockmaker’s Secret

The first time I noticed it was a Tuesday.

The clock on Main Street struck noon, but my watch showed 12:17. The bakery’s oven timer buzzed, though no one had set it. Even the old church bells rang late, echoing across town like a warning.

Nobody else seemed to care, but I couldn’t ignore it. Something was off in our town.

The answer, of course, was always the same: Mr. Adler’s clocks.

His little shop—Adler Timepieces—sat on the corner of Willow and 3rd, where it had been since before my father was born. People said Mr. Adler had been there just as long. The strange thing was… he looked exactly the same as he did in the yellowed newspaper clippings from the 1970s. Thin, pale, neatly dressed, hair slicked back like a man out of time.

I was a reporter for the Willow Gazette. Small-town stories, mostly. But I knew a good lead when I saw one.

So one rainy evening, I pushed open the shop’s heavy wooden door.

Inside, the air smelled of oil and brass. Hundreds of clocks lined the walls, ticking in perfect unison. Yet the shop felt too quiet, as if sound itself didn’t dare disturb Mr. Adler.

“Looking for something?” His voice was soft, almost kind.

I told him I was writing a piece about local businesses, but he smiled in that polite, knowing way that said he wasn’t fooled.

“You’ve noticed it, haven’t you?” he asked.

My throat went dry. “Noticed what?”

“The missing minutes.”

He turned and wound a grandfather clock, the brass pendulum swaying hypnotically.

“You all lose time,” Adler continued calmly, “but you never question where it goes. Forgotten birthdays, missed buses, days that slip through your fingers. Do you know why?”

I shook my head.

“Because I keep it.”

At first, I thought he was joking. But then he led me into the back room.

Rows of strange glass jars filled the shelves. Inside each one swirled a faint silver mist, glowing softly. Some jars pulsed quickly, others barely flickered. My skin crawled as I realized what they were.

“Minutes,” Adler said, running his finger along one. “Hours. Years, even. Time you’ll never remember losing. I collect it. And in return… I don’t age.”

My heart pounded. I wanted to run, but my legs wouldn’t move.

“Why me?” I whispered.

“Because you ask questions,” he said, tilting his head. “Curious minds are dangerous. But perhaps… you could join me.”

He handed me a pocket watch, its surface cold as ice. “Wind it once, and you’ll never grow old. All you must do is take a little time from others. Just a little. They’ll never notice.”

For a moment, I almost believed him. The thought of eternal youth, of escaping the slow crawl toward death, tempted me more than I’d admit.

But then I looked at the jars again—at the lives stolen, the years trapped forever in glass. I thought of my mother’s tired eyes, of the way she sometimes forgot things she swore she’d remembered. How much of her time had Adler stolen?

I shoved the watch back into his hand. “No.”

His smile vanished. For the first time, his eyes hardened like steel.

“You’ll regret that,” he said.

I stumbled out of the shop into the storm, heart racing. The clocks behind me ticked louder and louder until they drowned out the thunder.

That night, I wrote everything down. Every detail, every jar, every word Adler said. I planned to publish it in the morning.

But when I woke up, the file was gone. My laptop was wiped clean. The notes in my notebook—blank pages. As if I’d never written a word.

And then I checked my watch.

It was 9:47 a.m.

But the church bells were ringing noon.

Somewhere, in the back of my mind, I could hear the ticking.

And I knew—I had already lost three hours.

Maybe more.

Mr. Adler was still out there. And he was still collecting.