The Clockmaker’s Last Hour

In the heart of an old bazaar, tucked between a spice shop and a forgotten bookstore, stood Rauf’s Clockworks, a tiny shop filled with ticking, chiming, and humming clocks. Some were antique, some handmade, and some—according to rumor—were not entirely from this world. Rauf, the elderly clockmaker, had spent his whole life repairing time, second by second.

To the people of the bazaar, he was just a quiet craftsman. But to those who listened closely, time seemed to bend around him. Minutes stretched when he concentrated. Hours passed in the blink of an eye when his focus shifted. It was as though his presence shaped time itself.

But Rauf had a secret even deeper than his talent—
He was dying.

For months, he felt time slipping away faster each day. Not in a poetic sense, but literally: hours vanished, days skipped like faulty tracks on an old tape. Only one clock in the shop kept perfect time—a strange brass pocket watch with a glowing blue core. Rauf had built it many years ago, using gears forged from meteoric metal and energy from a storm no one else saw.

He called it Zamana-1, the first and only machine capable of bending time itself.

His plan had always been to destroy it one day. No man, he believed, should ever command time. But now, with the end drawing near, Rauf wondered if Time owed him one favor.


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A Stranger at Closing Time

One foggy evening, as Rauf turned the sign to CLOSED, the door creaked open. A young man stepped in—tall, tense, and wearing a long coat that looked too heavy for the weather.

“I need a clock fixed,” the stranger said. His eyes were sharp, scanning the room like a hunter searching for prey.

“We are closed, beta,” Rauf replied gently.

The stranger ignored the words and placed a broken silver watch on the counter. “This one stopped working at the exact moment my father died. I want it restored.”

Rauf reached for it—and froze.

This was no ordinary watch. Its inner gears were identical to those inside Zamana-1.

“How did you get this?” Rauf whispered.

“My father was your apprentice,” the man said. “You taught him everything. Including your secret.”

Rauf’s heart raced. Only one apprentice had ever learned part of the truth—Faizan. But Faizan vanished years ago after trying to steal Zamana-1.
The stranger leaned closer. “The watch contains a fragment of the core you made. My father believed you still had the original device.”

Rauf stepped back. “I will not help you.”

“You don’t have a choice,” the stranger replied, revealing a small pistol. “You’re going to fix the watch, and then you’re going to hand over the real one.”

Rauf felt a strange calm settle over him. His life had been long. His purpose nearly fulfilled. He looked at the brass pocket watch—the beating heart of the shop—and made a decision.

Time would listen to him one last time.


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The Final Winding

Rauf lifted the silver watch and began working. His hands, though old, moved with the precision of thirty years ago. Each twist of the screwdriver echoed louder than it should have. The ticking of the clocks around him slowed… then softened… then fell silent.

The stranger frowned. “What are you doing?”

Rauf didn’t answer. Instead, he opened the core compartment of the silver watch and removed the small shard inside. It pulsed faintly.

Then he reached for Zamana-1.

“No!” the stranger shouted, lunging forward.

But he was too late.

Rauf touched the shard to the core of Zamana-1. The clocks on the walls glowed. The air vibrated. Time shuddered as if startled awake.

And everything stopped.


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One Second Forever

In the frozen moment, Rauf stood alone. The stranger was trapped mid-step, pistol raised. Dust hovered in the air like tiny stars.

Rauf looked around his shop one last time. “I have repaired time my whole life,” he said softly. “Now let me rest.”

He pulled the final gear from Zamana-1.

Time roared back with the force of a collapsing world.

When everything settled, the shop was still. The stranger lay on the floor, disarmed but alive. Zamana-1 was shattered, its pieces dull and lifeless.
And Rauf was gone.

Not dead.
Not vanished.
Simply… returned to the moment he had always belonged to—somewhere outside the ticking of clocks.

The bazaar people later said the shop felt different, quieter, as if time itself mourned the old clockmaker.

But one thing remained certain:

No clock in the bazaar ever ran late again.