The Clockmaker’s Secret

In the heart of the old town, nestled between a bakery and a forgotten bookstore, stood a little shop with no name on its door. Its windows were always foggy, and no one ever saw customers go in or come out. Only a small wooden sign hanging above read:
“Time Mended Here.”

Inside the dim shop, hundreds of clocks ticked in perfect harmony—grandfather clocks, pocket watches, wall clocks, even cuckoo clocks. They all ran together like an orchestra under one conductor: Mr. Elric, the old clockmaker.

Elric had lived in the town longer than anyone remembered. He was a man of few words, with silver hair, spectacles too big for his nose, and a pocket watch he never let out of his sight. Rumor had it he could fix any timepiece, even those thought impossible to repair. But the townsfolk didn’t talk to him much. They whispered instead.

“Strange man,” they'd say.
“Lives alone. Works on clocks all day. Never ages a day older.”

One rainy afternoon, a girl named Lina wandered into the shop. She wasn’t there to fix a clock. She was hiding from the storm, her schoolbag soaked, her shoes squeaking on the wooden floor.

Elric looked up from his desk and raised an eyebrow. “You’re not broken,” he said.

Lina blinked. “I’m not a clock.”

“Everything ticks,” Elric replied, returning to his work. “Hearts, minds, memories. All keep time. Sometimes they need mending.”

Curiosity overcame Lina’s nerves. She wandered around the shop, watching the clocks. Despite the different makes and models, they all ticked exactly in sync.

“How do you make them all run the same?” she asked.

Elric smiled softly. “Ah, that’s the trick, isn’t it? The secret.”

For some reason, Lina kept coming back. After school, on weekends, even during holidays. She asked questions, helped dust the clocks, and learned the difference between a mainspring and a balance wheel. Over time, Elric began to trust her.

Then one evening, he told her something strange.

“These clocks,” he said, “don’t just measure time. Some... store it.”

Lina laughed. “Like a time machine?”

Elric’s eyes twinkled behind his glasses. “Something like that. You see, people lose time—regret it, waste it, beg for more of it. I’ve spent my life collecting the pieces they leave behind.”

He opened a drawer and pulled out a small silver pocket watch.

“This one,” he said, “holds ten minutes of someone’s happiest day. And this—” he gestured toward a golden clock on the shelf, “—has two hours a man wished he could undo.”

Lina didn’t know whether to believe him. But a part of her—maybe the child who still believed in magic—wanted it to be true.

One day, Lina arrived at the shop to find the door locked and a note pinned to the glass:

“Gone to fix something important. Watch the clocks.” —E.

Days passed. Then weeks. Elric never returned.

The townsfolk assumed he had simply left. Disappeared, like the wind that blows through a forgotten street.

But Lina knew better. She kept the shop clean, wound the clocks, and listened to their ticking. She felt something shift inside them—like they were waiting.

Then, one stormy night, just like the day she first entered the shop, the golden clock on the shelf struck thirteen.

Time stopped.

The clocks froze. Not a single tick, not a single tock.

Lina stepped forward and found the small silver watch Elric once showed her glowing faintly on the counter. Its lid was open, and inside was a note:

“Time is not lost. Only misplaced. Find me where the seconds sleep.”

Lina didn’t know what it meant. But she felt it—like a compass turning inside her. She wound the watch, and in that moment, the shop shimmered and vanished from the world.

She found herself standing in a forest of suspended moments—raindrops frozen mid-fall, birds hovering with wings spread, people paused mid-laughter. A place between seconds. A place Elric had once called The Clockfield.

And there he stood—his pocket watch in hand, smiling.

“I was waiting for you,” he said.

Lina didn’t ask how or why. She simply hugged him and whispered, “I came to fix the time.”

Together, they walked into the field of stillness, winding moments back into motion.