Where We Left the Watch

Where We Left the Watch

By Mahboob Khan

It started with a coincidence.

Three years ago, I was digging through a box of old postcards at the Sunday flea market when a girl leaned over, picked one up, and said, “You’re holding the best one.”

I looked up. She had a bandana tied in her hair, ink on her fingers, and eyes that looked like they’d read too many books and still wanted more. She held up a postcard of a faded lighthouse. It was the one I was about to choose.

So I let her have it.

We talked for an hour after that. Her name was Lena, and she was in town visiting her cousin. I was local, just wasting a Sunday. She loved old things — clocks, letters, tiny ceramic animals. Said they were “ghosts with texture.”

When she left, we made a deal.

No numbers. No social media. No pressure.

“Same place, same time, next year,” she said. “We’ll let the universe decide.”

I thought it was the strangest kind of goodbye. But also the most perfect.

The next year, I showed up, not expecting much. But she was there — scarf in her hair again, holding a cracked vinyl record and a smirk.

We got coffee, browsed booths, talked about the year that had passed like we were old friends. She had gotten a tattoo of a sparrow. I had broken up with someone who never really knew me.

She said, “The best people are the ones you don’t have to catch up with — because somehow, you never fall behind.”

Before she left, she gave me a tiny brass key.

“It’s for next time,” she said.

Year three came fast. We found a booth selling vintage watches. She was fascinated by a silver one with a missing second hand. The vendor said it didn’t work — just ticked once when you closed the lid, then fell silent.

She bought it anyway.

“I love broken things,” she said. “They have less to prove.”

We sat on the curb near the food trucks, eating samosas and talking about regrets. She never mentioned family. I never asked. That was the rule: one day, no expectations, just presence.

Before she left, she handed me a folded page from an old book, wrapped in ribbon.

“You’ll need this eventually,” she said.

This year, I got there early.

I walked the entire market twice. Checked the postcard guy. The vinyl booth. The food trucks.

Nothing.

No Lena.

Just wind and strangers.

I waited three hours, checking every shadow, every echo. I was about to leave when the watch vendor called out to me.

“You’re the one she told me about.”

He handed me a paper bag.

Inside: the silver watch.

And a note.

“I’m sorry I couldn’t be there. I know we didn’t plan for this. But life never cared much for plans. If you found this, it means you remembered. And that’s enough.”

“Open the watch.”

I flipped open the silver lid. It ticked once.

Inside, where the second hand should’ve been, was the brass key she gave me last year — glued gently in place.

Under it, etched in delicate handwriting:

“Apartment 4B. Corner of Pine & Willow.”

I stared at the note for a long time.

Part of me hesitated. We had rules. No addresses. No phone numbers. Just the market, the mystery.

But part of me also knew: if she had left this behind, maybe she had broken the rule for a reason.

So I went.

Apartment 4B was up two flights of creaky stairs. The hallway smelled like old wood and lemon polish. I knocked.

No answer.

But taped to the door, just below the peephole, was another note.

“I moved. But if you made it here, I owe you the next chapter. Booth #27, next Sunday. Final clue.”

No name. Just a red ribbon tucked inside the tape — the same kind she used to tie her book pages.

I smiled. She hadn’t vanished.

She was waiting.

I uploaded part 2 of this story go and check it out