Where We Left the Watch – Part 3: The Room With No Clock

Where We Left the Watch – Part 3: The Room With No Clock

By Mahboob Khan

It took me six days to text her after the call.

Not because I didn’t want to. But because I did — more than I realized. And when something feels that important, you start to hesitate. You wonder if maybe the magic was in the distance, in the waiting, in the not-quite.

But she didn’t wait for me to figure it out.

Instead, she sent me a picture.

A small, sunlit room. A record player. A mug. A view of the sea.

“I found a place,” the caption said.

“There’s no clock. Thought you might like that.”

Two weeks later, I was standing at her door.

Same red ribbon, now tied to the doorknob.

She opened it like she wasn’t surprised.

“I knew you’d come,” she said, softly. “You just needed to take your time.”

The place smelled like citrus and old pages. Her scarf was hanging on a hook. A kettle was whistling.

For a moment, we didn’t say anything. And in that silence, I realized something:

We had never needed words to recognize each other. Not really.

She showed me the room.

It overlooked the cliffs. There was a single bookshelf, a messy table with dried paint stains, a drawer full of blank postcards.

“This is where I come to write,” she said. “Where I let memories fall apart and rearrange themselves.”

I turned and smiled.

“Do I get a drawer?”

“You get a whole shelf,” she said, and we laughed like we were still at the flea market, bickering over ceramic frogs.

That night, we didn’t talk about the past.

We sat by the window. Listened to records. Shared the couch without touching — not because we were afraid, but because it felt sacred, this pause between old rhythms and new ones.

When the record finished, I finally asked, “Why now? Why did you leave all those clues instead of just asking me to stay?”

She didn’t answer right away.

Then she said:

“Because I wanted to know if you remembered the version of me you fell in love with. Not the one time changed.”

“And did I?” I asked.

She looked at me.

“You remembered better than I did.”

We stayed up until 2 a.m., talking about everything and nothing — from the lighthouses of Maine to what we’d name a cat if we ever got one (she voted for ‘Captain Whisker’, which I strongly opposed).

The next morning, she made coffee and toast. We ate in that little room with no clock, where time finally felt like something we didn’t have to chase.

And then — only then — did we say the words.

“I love you,” I said, because I didn’t want her to guess anymore.

Not through postcards. Not through watches. Not through lighthouses or riddles.

She looked up from her coffee, the tiniest smile tugging at the corner of her mouth.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

Then added, softer, “I love you too.”

Epilogue

A year later, we still visit the flea market.

Booth 27 is now ours. We rent it once a month. Sell old books and odd objects and give away free postcards to anyone who looks like they might need a memory.

And we still have the silver watch — broken, ticking once, like a whisper from the past.

But we don’t need it anymore.

Because now, every morning, every ordinary moment, feels like a memory worth keeping.

And this time, we’re writing them together.

T H E E N D