The Man Who Fixed the Clock

I didn’t notice the clock was broken until it stopped.

It sat on the corner shelf of my grandparents’ living room for as long as I could remember—brass, ornate, with Roman numerals and a soft, steady tick that marked the rhythm of every visit. My grandfather wound it every Sunday without fail, even in his nineties, even when his hands shook.

When he passed, the clock kept ticking. The family gathered, shared stories, cried, left. But no one wound it. And slowly, over weeks, the ticking faded, then stopped.

For years, I didn’t think about it. I moved cities, changed jobs, forgot the sound of that steady beat. Then, last winter, I was cleaning out my attic and found the clock wrapped in yellowed newspaper. Dust coated its face. The hands were frozen at 3:17.

I took it to a repair shop downtown. The man behind the counter—gray hair, oil-stained fingers—examined it in silence. “This is a family piece,” he said, not a question. “You don’t throw these away.”

“It hasn’t worked in years,” I admitted.

He looked at me, eyes sharp. “That doesn’t mean it’s not worth fixing.”

He kept it for three weeks. When I returned, he handed it back without a word. I held my breath and turned the key.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The sound was soft, familiar, alive. Tears filled my eyes. Not because it was expensive. But because he’d seen its value when I’d forgotten.

That’s when I understood: we live in a world that discards what’s broken. Phones, relationships, people—once they stop performing, we replace them. But some things aren’t meant to be replaced. They’re meant to be repaired.

I thought of my grandmother, who mended socks with mismatched thread. “It still keeps your feet warm,” she’d say.

I thought of my high school teacher, who stayed after class to help me with algebra, even though I failed twice. “You’re not broken,” he told me. “You’re just not ready yet.”

I thought of the neighbor who still waves from his porch, even though his wife is gone and his children rarely call.

These are the quiet keepers of the world—the ones who believe in mending over replacing.

In a culture obsessed with newness—new phones, new trends, new versions of ourselves—we’ve forgotten the dignity of repair. We hide our cracks with filters, delete our mistakes, and pretend we’re flawless. But real strength isn’t in perfection. It’s in showing up with your broken parts and saying, ‘I’m still worth your time.’

The clock ticks on my shelf now. Not because it’s flawless—it still chimes five minutes slow—but because it reminds me: some things gain value with age, with care, with history.

Last week, my nephew asked why I don’t just buy a digital clock. “This one’s old,” he said.

“It’s not just a clock,” I told him. “It’s a promise. A promise that some things are worth keeping—even when they stop working.”

He didn’t fully understand. But he listened. And that’s enough.

Because the real lesson isn’t about timepieces. It’s about us.

Are we disposable? Or are we worth winding, again and again, even when we falter?

I choose to believe we are.

So if you’re feeling broken today—if you’ve missed a deadline, lost a friend, failed a test, or just feel like you’re not enough—remember the clock.

You don’t need to be perfect to be valuable.

You just need someone who believes you’re worth fixing.

And if no one’s told you that lately,

let me be the first:

You are.

The world may rush past, chasing the next shiny thing.

But the quiet keepers?

They stay.

They mend.

They wind the clocks.

And in doing so, they keep time itself from running out on us.

So tonight, when the house is still,

listen for the tick.

It’s not just marking seconds.

It’s singing a lullaby of hope—

for all of us who are still learning

how to keep going.

#Repair #Legacy #HumanConnection #HopeFor2026 #Presence #RealLife #Dignity #YouAreNotAlone #Slowness #Worth

Disclaimer

Written by Kamran Ahmad from personal reflection and lived experience.