The Room Behind the Clock

By Shaheer.

When Mae’s grandmother died, the house was left to her—a crumbling Victorian mansion on the edge of Wren Hollow, where fog clung to the trees like secrets and time seemed to move slower. Mae was sixteen and grieving, her parents too busy untangling their own lives to notice how quiet she had become.

She arrived at the house with only two bags and a box of books. The house greeted her with creaks and whispers, like an old friend who spoke in wood and wind. Every room was heavy with the scent of dust and lavender.

But it was the grandfather clock in the hallway that caught her attention.

It stood tall, regal, and still ticking, despite the power being out. It struck every hour, slightly off-beat, like a breath held too long. Mae couldn’t shake the feeling that it was watching her.

Three days into her stay, she noticed something odd. When the clock struck midnight, the hallway temperature dropped sharply. And one night, when she passed it with her candle in hand, she saw it—a seam behind the clock. A faint outline. A hidden door.

Mae pushed against the wood. Nothing.

The next day, she searched the library and found her grandmother’s old journal. Most of it was filled with poems and plant notes, but on one page, in rushed handwriting, was a single line:

“The key is in the silence between ticks.”

That night, Mae sat in front of the clock and listened. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Then—nothing. A pause. She leaned in. Her fingers brushed the side of the casing where the silence had been. And with a soft click, the clock face slid sideways, revealing a narrow door.

She opened it slowly.

Beyond was a narrow staircase, spiraling downward. The air smelled like old wood and rain. Mae took her candle and descended.

The room behind the clock was circular, lit by the flicker of oil lamps that somehow still burned. The walls were covered in old photos, drawings, and faded maps. In the center was a writing desk, and on it, a wooden box carved with stars and moons.

Mae opened the box. Inside were letters—hundreds, all addressed to her.

The first one was dated the day she was born.

“My dearest Mae,

If you’re reading this, it means the clock has found you.”

The letters were from her grandmother. Every single one. She wrote to Mae as if she were having conversations across time. Describing Mae’s first smile. Her first word. The time she broke her arm when she was eight. Things Mae never knew her grandmother witnessed. But she had. Quietly. From afar.

In one letter, her grandmother wrote:

“This room is where I kept time safe. Where memories lived untouched. You’ll find the truth here. About yourself. About me. You are more than you know.”

Mae spent hours there, reading every letter, every page of old journals. Her grandmother had been more than just a gardener and a quiet widow. She was a historian of dreams. A keeper of stories. A protector of lost things.

And now, Mae was too.

The days passed differently after that. She still wandered the dusty halls. Still made tea in the cracked kitchen. But each night, when the clock struck midnight, she went behind it and into the room where time unfolded like petals.

She found photos of her mother, smiling in ways Mae had never seen. Letters addressed to a man she had never met—her grandfather, perhaps, or someone else. She learned the history of the house, of her bloodline, of old wars and forgotten joys. She found herself in those stories.

One evening, Mae found the final letter. It was newer than the others. The ink hadn’t yet faded.

“Mae,

You were always meant to find this place. I knew the world would confuse you, maybe even break you a little. But in this room, you can mend. The past is not a weight—it’s a thread. Use it to stitch something beautiful.

When you are ready, lock this door. Let it rest. The world needs you now.”

Mae folded the letter and placed it back in the box.

She stood for a long moment, candle in hand, then turned toward the stairs.

That night, the clock did not tick.

It was quiet. Peaceful.

And as Mae walked into the dawn, her heart carried a thousand stories, and the soft echo of a door gently closing behind her.

End.