The Timekeepers

People said time moved slowly in the coastal New England town of Cronsmouth, where sea fog crept through narrow streets and rooftops bowed beneath age and salt. Down a narrow lane off the town square stood a watch shop. Despite its age and the seaside storms it endured, the two-story brick building stood firm. Its windows were always misted, and its wooden sign hung by a rusted chain over the solid oak door. The sign’s once-gilded letters read:

Moirai Brothers Timepieces

No one remembered the shop’s opening. Some said it had been built before the town itself. Its bricks didn’t match the others in town; its foundation was older than the square it faced.

Inside the shop, the air had a pulse.

The storefront was filled with grandfather clocks, mantel clocks, wall clocks, and pocket watches. An ornate grandfather clock stood behind the counter, next to a man in a heather gray suit who looked as old and sturdy as the building where he worked.

Horace Bell stepped out of the cold into the shop's warmth. He pulled off his overcoat, dampened from the falling snow, and called in a chipper voice, “Good morning, Mr. Moirai!” Horace was newly a father. The night before, his wife Victoria had given birth to a boy: Arnold, tiny and perfect. Horace had slept hardly at all, yet the world felt dreamlike—glowing at the edges. He’d come to town to buy a watch–a keepsake to mark the beginning of fatherhood.

Mr. Moirai listened as Horace explained what he sought. He nodded, then disappeared through a dark blue velvet curtain behind the counter.

Horace waited for several minutes.

Then several minutes more.

The ticking in the room grew louder.

He called out.

No reply.

Impatiently, he stepped through the curtain.

The room beyond was cooler, lit by a single gas lamp. Velvet-trimmed shelves lined the walls. On the shelves were more pocket watches than Horace could count, each with varying degrees of wear. Some shone brightly while others were worn and tarnished. All were ticking with their own unique rhythm.

Beneath each was a brass nameplate.

Constance Hargrove. Josiah Kerr. Calvin Doyle. Miriam Thorne.

Farther down, he spotted three watches, grouped close together—the one in the center newer, glistening.

He stepped closer, peering at their nameplates.

Victoria Bell…

Arnold Bell…

Horace Bell.

Confusion washed over him.

Behind him, the floor creaked.

He spun.

Three men stood in the doorway.

Mr. Moirai stood in the middle. A man in a white suit stood to his left, another in black to his right.

The Moirai Brothers.

None spoke.

“What is this?” Horace demanded, his voice wavering.

“You were not meant to see this.” sighed Mr. Moirai “No one is meant to see this.”

Horace’s eyes darted around the room, scanning for a way out.

Instantly, the brother in black was next to him, picking up the watch with Horace’s name on it.

Then, its ticking stopped–and everything went black.