The clockmakers gift shop

In a quiet village tucked between green hills and winding cobblestone streets, there lived an old clockmaker named Elias. His tiny workshop sat at the corner of Market Lane, filled with the gentle ticking of countless clocks and the soft scent of wood shavings and oil.

Elias had crafted timepieces for nearly fifty years. Grandfather clocks with golden chimes, delicate pocket watches with engraved initials, even tiny cuckoo clocks that chirped joyfully at every hour. People came from far and wide not just for his skill, but for the strange magic in his work—clocks that seemed to tick a little smoother, keep time a little truer.

But Elias had no family, no apprentice. Only his cat, Thistle, who curled beside the fireplace as he worked late into the night. The village children sometimes pressed their faces to his window, watching gears turn and springs dance beneath his careful fingers.

One winter, when Elias sensed his hands trembling more than usual and his eyes tiring, he began work on one final piece. It was a clock unlike any other—small and round, carved from an old cherrywood box he had saved since youth. Inside, he placed a golden mechanism, the finest he had ever made. On the back, he etched a message:

"Time is a gift—spend it with love."

When the clock was finished, Elias wrapped it in soft velvet and placed it on his workbench.

That night, he passed peacefully in his sleep.

In the morning, the villagers found his workshop silent for the first time in memory. They mourned him quietly, laying flowers at the doorstep, leaving broken watches and notes of thanks.

No one knows who took the small clock. Some say Thistle led a child into the workshop and nudged it toward her. Others say it vanished on its own. But stories spread of a little wooden clock that never needed winding, and wherever it went, time seemed gentler, lighter.

And in every town it passed through, someone would look up and whisper:

"Thank you, Elias."