The Clockmaker

The ticking of the clocks filled Henry’s workshop like a chorus of whispers, each one a reminder that time had never been on his side. His current project was torn apart, shattered into pieces across his battered wooden desk. Henry muttered madly at himself, mumbling a mess of pleas. 

Outside, the snow was barren and seemed endless. Not a person in sight - just Henry. His old workshop seemed out of place in the oasis of white. Distant village lights faded in and out of view with the moving fog clouds and snow storms. The moon had started to rise behind the workshop, not that it would affect Henry. He worked all day, all night, only slept - only ate when he was forced to by his weak body. 

Back in the workshop, the walls were lined with clocks of all shapes and sizes. Some chimed cheerfully, their gilded faces oblivious to the sorrow that filled the room. Others ticked irregularly, almost as though they too felt the weight of Henry’s despair.

His trembling hands reached for the pieces of the pocket watch he had been working on for days, a rare find he had stumbled upon in a dusty market weeks ago. The engravings on its surface—the delicate swirls of stars and moons—were unlike anything he’d seen in decades of crafting timepieces. Yet no matter how hard he tried, the watch resisted him, its inner mechanisms refusing to click into place.

“Emily. Please. Emily please - please work,” he whispered to the watch, madly repeating the words. 

Emily. A name he hadn’t had hope for in a while. He hadn’t spoken it aloud in years, not like this—not with the fragile, desperate hope that now clung to each syllable. The sound of her name felt foreign on his tongue, almost as though it belonged to someone else, someone who hadn’t been broken by grief and time. The watch lay still in his hands, the faint moonlight from the frosted window glinting off its polished surface. It was beautiful, almost ethereal, as though it had been crafted by hands far more skilled—far more purposeful—than his own. And yet, its beauty meant nothing if it remained silent.

"Why won't you let me fix you?" Henry muttered, his voice cracking. His thumb traced the engraving of a crescent moon on the back, its curves as smooth and cold as the snow-covered world outside, “why won’t you let me see her?”

His hands shook, tears threatening to roll down his wrinkled cheeks. His fingers trembled as he picked up a delicate gear, its edges fine as a spider’s web. The tools on his workbench gleamed in the lantern light, precise and steady despite his shaky hands. He held his breath and fitted the gear into place, leaning in so close he could hear his own heartbeat thundering in his ears. For a moment, just a moment, the pieces seemed to align.

Then, with a faint click, the gear slipped loose, falling back into the pile of parts.

Henry slammed his fist onto the bench, sending a chorus of ticking and chiming reverberating through the room. The clocks seemed to mock him now.

“You don’t understand,” he hissed at the watch, his voice trembling with anger and despair. “You’re my only chance. I need you to work—I need you to bring her back.”

The watch remained silent, its polished surface reflecting his gaunt face and hollow eyes. Henry buried his head in his hands, his breath coming in shallow gasps. He was no longer sure if it was the watch he was begging—or the universe itself.

And then, just as his despair threatened to swallow him whole, something changed. A faint warmth seeped into his palm, so subtle at first he thought he imagined it. Another click sounded, but this time the clock - instead of breaking - joined together. Light seeped from the cracks of the pocket watch - engulfing the workshop around Henry - transporting him to another world. 

“Yes. Yes. Finally, bring her back. Come on. Please,” Henry continued to mumble, gradually crescendoing as the light continued to swirl around him. Cacophonies of colours entered the workshop, leaving not a place plain. 

The light suddenly started to fade out leaving him stranded in a…a field? Perhaps? 

Nothing was around him. Just grass and a few lone flowers. Henry stood, alone, his hands on his head, just wondering what he did wrong. All he wanted was to see her. Emily. His daughter. 

As Henry stared over the sunset, two people arose in the distance. Walking towards him, unaware of his existence. One looked like a man, like him. But younger. The other,

Emily.

He really was back in time. The pocket watch hadn’t brought Emily back to him, it had brought him to Emily.  

Emily and the man - he presumed was himself - started to run in the field, laughing and crying. Henry remembered this day. The day before the death. Emotions took hold of Henry. He urged forward, almost crashing into them but they paid no mind. One last chance to see her, that's all he needed. 

“Emily! Emily!” He shouted at her. But she ignored him. They continued walking. There was nothing he could do. 

Light enveloped Henry once more and the cold sterility of a hospital room emerged. He knew this place instantly. The air was heavy with the faint scent of antiseptic and the rhythmic beeping of machines.

Emily’s hospital room.

There she was, frail and pale, yet impossibly radiant as she leaned against his younger self for support. She smiled faintly, her determination masking the pain that had been her constant companion. Henry stood frozen, his breath catching in his throat. The scene played out exactly as he remembered, yet every detail cut him sharper and more vivid than before.

His younger self helped Emily into the bed, his trembling hands revealing the weight of his dread. She laughed. Henry’s chest tightened. That laugh had once been the centre of his world, and hearing it again was both a gift and a punishment.

The nurses moved around them, adjusting monitors and murmuring soft reassurances. Henry could only watch as the machines documented Emily’s decline, their ceaseless tones an unrelenting reminder of what was coming. His younger self sat beside her, gripping her hand like a lifeline, tears streaking his face as he whispered words Henry could barely hear.

“I’m here, Em. I’m not going anywhere.”

Henry moved closer, his steps slow and deliberate. He stood at her bedside, looking down at her as though she might suddenly wake and see him. She coughed weakly, her frame shaking with the effort, but her expression remained calm. Strong. Her smile barely faltered as she looked at the younger Henry, her fingers brushing his cheek.

“It’s okay,” Emily said softly. Her voice was hoarse but steady, filled with a grace that Henry hadn’t fully appreciated in that moment. “You have to let me go. You’ll be okay, Dad. I promise.”

The words hit Henry with a force that made his knees weak. He knelt beside her, invisible to her and his younger self, but he no longer cared. He reached out, his hand hovering above hers, so close he could almost feel the warmth that had long since left her.

Tears blurred his vision as he finally lowered his hand, letting it rest lightly on her forehead. For a moment, he felt peace—a sense of connection, as though his grief and love had reached across time. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I’m so, so sorry.”

The younger Henry wept openly now, his head bowed, his shoulders shaking. The nurses stepped back, their solemn faces reflecting the truth Henry already knew. The machines slowed, their tones softening into a final, quiet hum. Emily’s hand slipped from her father’s grasp as she exhaled her last breath, her smile lingering even as her body stilled.

Henry closed his eyes, his hand still resting on her. There was no agony this time, no desperate attempt to fight what couldn’t be changed. Only a profound sense of release.

The light returned, seeping into the room like the breaking of dawn. It grew brighter, softer, until the hospital faded away completely.

When Henry opened his eyes again, he was back in his workshop, surrounded by the familiar ticking of clocks. The pocket watch rested in his hand, silent but whole. He opened his clasp, letting it fall to the hard, wooden ground. Henry stared at the shattered remains of the pocket watch, its delicate gears and intricate engravings now reduced to fragments scattered across the floor. For a long moment, he didn’t move. The chorus of ticking clocks filled the silence, their rhythm steady and unrelenting, as if reminding him that time marched forward no matter how hard he tried to hold it back.

He exhaled, his breath shaky but calm. The ache in his chest felt lighter, no longer the suffocating weight he had carried for so many years. He closed his eyes and saw her—Emily, laughing in the golden sunlight of the field, her face full of life. He saw her in the hospital room too, fragile but smiling, her spirit unbroken even as her body gave out. For the first time, the memories didn’t feel like knives twisting in his heart. They felt like gifts.

Henry stood slowly, his joints creaking in protest. He crouched down, gathering the shards of the pocket watch with careful hands. There was no anger now, no despair. Just a quiet sense of resolution. The watch had given him what he needed—not what he thought he wanted, but what he truly needed. A chance to see her again. A chance to remember her as she was, and to finally let her go.

He placed the fragments in a small box and set it on the highest shelf of his workshop, where the light from the window could reach it. The broken watch didn’t need to be fixed anymore. It had already done its job.

Henry turned to the clocks on the walls, their ticking no longer mocking but comforting. He picked up a half-finished project from his bench, a simple wooden clock meant for a child’s room. For the first time in years, his hands felt steady, his heart clear. As he worked, the workshop filled with the warm hum of creation, the sound of a man who had finally made peace with the past.

Outside, the snow had stopped falling, and the first rays of morning sunlight crept across the horizon. The village lights glowed softly in the distance, and the world seemed, for a moment, still and full of possibility. Henry smiled faintly as he tightened a gear into place.

Time moved forward, as it always did. And for the first time in a long time, Henry was ready to move with it.