The Clockmaker’s Promise

Marcel had spent most of his life surrounded by clocks.

His shop, tucked between a bakery and a tailor on Elderberry Lane, smelled of oil and cedar. Time ticked from every corner. Grandfather clocks with faces like solemn old men, delicate pocket watches in velvet boxes, and little brass carriage clocks that chimed sweetly at the hour.

People in the village said Marcel could fix any clock—no matter how broken. What they didn’t know was that he’d never been able to mend the one that mattered most.

It sat on a shelf behind the counter, silent for twenty years. A tall walnut case, intricate filigree carved into its sides, the hands forever frozen at 3:47.

That was the moment Clara died.

They’d been married just five years. She’d bought the clock for their first anniversary, a token of the hours they hoped to share. When the fever took her, Marcel had tried to keep the clock wound, but each morning he’d find it stopped again. Eventually, he gave up.

But he couldn’t bring himself to sell it.

---

On the first day of spring, a young woman entered the shop. She wore a green dress that reminded Marcel of new leaves, and her hair was pinned up with a brass comb. She looked around as though she were searching for something she’d lost long ago.

“Can I help you?” he asked gently.

“I hope so,” she said. She set a pocket watch on the counter, its case tarnished, the crystal cracked. “It belonged to my grandfather. It hasn’t worked in years.”

Marcel picked it up, feeling its weight. He pressed the tiny catch, and the back sprang open. Inside, an inscription:

To my dearest Anna—so you never forget how loved you are.

The woman’s eyes glistened.

“I’d like to give it to my daughter,” she said. “But I can’t bear for it to be broken.”

Marcel nodded. “I’ll see what I can do.”

---

For three days, he worked on the watch. He cleaned every gear, polished every hinge, replaced the cracked crystal. And though he’d repaired hundreds like it, something about this one felt different.

It reminded him that time was not just measured in hours and minutes, but in memories. In all the little moments that made a life.

When the woman returned, Marcel placed the watch in her hands.

“It’s keeping perfect time,” he said.

She turned it over, brushing her thumb across the inscription.

“Thank you,” she whispered. “I was afraid it was beyond saving.”

Marcel hesitated, then gestured to the tall clock on the shelf.

“Some things feel that way,” he admitted. “But perhaps they’re only waiting for the right moment to begin again.”

---

After she left, the shop felt quieter than usual. Marcel stood before the clock, resting his hand on the carved wood.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured, though he didn’t know if he spoke to Clara or to himself.

Then, almost without thinking, he wound the key.

At first, nothing happened. The hands stayed still.

He closed his eyes, feeling the shape of loss pressing on his chest, familiar and sharp.

Then—so soft he thought he imagined it—a tick.

He opened his eyes. The second hand quivered, then began to move.

One tick.

Then another.

And another.

Marcel let out a breath he hadn’t realized he’d been holding. For twenty years, he had believed the clock had died with her.

But maybe it had only been waiting for him to forgive himself.

---

That evening, as the clock struck the hour for the first time in decades, Marcel felt something shift inside him.

Time hadn’t healed everything. But it had given him space to try again.

And sometimes, he thought, that was enough.