The Clockmaker’s Gift

In the heart of a quiet village nestled between the forest and the sea, there was a small shop with a crooked sign that read "T. Wren, Clockmaker." The windows were always foggy with the scent of oil and wood, and the ticking from within could be heard even on the street.

Tobias Wren, the shop’s sole proprietor, was a tall man with silver hair and a habit of talking to his clocks. No one knew how old he was—only that he’d been there as long as anyone could remember, always tinkering, always alone.

One rainy afternoon, as thunder rolled low across the sky, a girl burst through the door of the shop. Her coat was soaked, her boots muddy, and her eyes wide with something between fear and wonder.

“Sir, please,” she said, breathless. “I need your help.”

Tobias looked up from a brass pocket watch he’d been mending. “I don’t usually take rush orders,” he muttered, not unkindly.

“It’s not that,” she said, stepping closer. “I think time is… breaking.”

That got his attention.

She reached into her bag and pulled out a strange little clock—round, with etched runes instead of numbers and a second hand that spun wildly, never settling. Tobias took it with trembling fingers.

“Where did you find this?” he asked.

“In the attic of my grandmother’s house,” she said. “She passed last week. Said it had something to do with our family—something about time keeping us, not the other way around.”

Tobias stared at the clock, his face pale. “These markings… this is old. Older than your grandmother. Possibly older than the village.”

The girl glanced nervously at the cuckoo clock on the wall. It struck four, but the hands still pointed to three.

“I’ve been seeing things,” she whispered. “People moving twice. Voices out of sync. Yesterday, my reflection blinked before I did.”

Tobias stood and went to the back room without a word, returning with a long, cloth-wrapped bundle. Inside was an ornate key, carved from a single piece of obsidian.

“I never thought I’d need this again,” he said.

Together, they placed the strange clock on the workbench. Tobias turned the key slowly, once, then twice. The clock trembled. A soft chime rang out—not mechanical, but something deeper, like the sound of wind through ancient trees.

And then the room stilled. No ticking. No thunder. No sound at all.

The girl looked around, alarmed. “What happened?”

Tobias’s voice was distant. “We’re outside of time, just for a moment. It’s the only way to reset the balance.”

He leaned closer to the strange clock, adjusted one of the rune dials, and pressed a button hidden beneath the base.

The air shimmered. A breeze stirred his hair, though the windows were shut.

And then—tick. Tick. Tick.

The shop came back to life. The clocks resumed their rhythm. Outside, the rain had stopped.

The girl blinked. “Did it work?”

Tobias smiled, faint and tired. “For now. But you should keep the clock. Time is tied to your family. It may call on you again.”

She nodded slowly and took the clock, wrapping it in a scarf.

As she reached for the door, she paused. “What time is it?”

Tobias looked up at the grandfather clock behind her. It read six. But he didn’t answer right away.

He simply smiled and said, “Just in time.”

And with that, she stepped back into the world—where time ticked steadily once more.

But the girl—her name was Elara—didn’t go straight home. The village outside felt subtly different. People moved with a slight lag, as though the world was catching up. Her breath fogged in the cool air, but time itself felt warmer.

She stopped at the bridge near the town square and looked into the water below. Her reflection stared back, still and silent, until—just for a blink—it smiled before she did.

Her heart pounded.

The clock in her bag ticked faintly, almost thoughtfully. She reached in and turned it over in her hands. The rune at the top—once unreadable—now pulsed with a faint golden glow.

Back in the shop, Tobias sat at his bench, staring at a small, tattered journal he had kept for years. In it were names—each one tied to the clock over the centuries. Elara’s was the newest, written in ink that shimmered silver under the light.

He sighed and leaned back in his chair.

“It’s beginning again,” he whispered to the room.

Outside, all the clocks ticked together, perfectly in sync.

For now.

Elara didn’t sleep that night.

She kept the clock on her bedside table, its ticking impossibly soft, like the murmur of a distant brook. Every now and then, the second hand would pause, stutter, or leap forward as though reacting to something unseen. She swore she could feel it—like pressure building in her chest, a pull in the air, drawing her toward… something.

At 3:03 AM, her lamp flickered. Outside her window, the stars blinked erratically, and the trees swayed though there was no wind.

Then, without warning, the clock let out a single, deep chime. Not a sound of metal, but of time itself—a tone that seemed to stretch and fold everything around her.

She sat upright. The room was darker than it should’ve been. Shadows danced along the walls, moving on their own.

“Elara,” a voice whispered. Not from the hallway. From inside the clock.

She reached for it with trembling fingers, but the runes glowed, and the second hand reversed, spinning counterclockwise.

The voice came again. “It’s not over. Not yet.”

She snatched her coat and the clock and ran into the night.

Back in the clock shop, Tobias Wren woke from his chair with a start. The obsidian key, resting beside him, was warm to the touch.

He looked out the window toward the hills and frowned.

“Too soon,” he muttered. “Far too soon.”

He pulled on his coat, grabbed the key, and locked the door behind him. The ticking faded.

Time was stirring again.

Elara ran through the sleeping village, the clock clutched to her chest, its ticking now rapid—urgent. The streets were empty, windows dark, but she felt eyes on her. Not human ones. The night had a presence, like it was watching, waiting.

She didn’t know where she was going until her feet led her to the edge of the forest. The path there was old, mostly forgotten, overgrown with brambles and thick with fog. Still, the clock’s ticking seemed to guide her, slowing when she veered, speeding up when she stepped back on course.

Deeper in the woods, a clearing opened. At its center stood a stone archway, half-swallowed by moss and time. The moment she stepped into the clearing, the ticking stopped.

She wasn’t alone.

Tobias Wren stepped out from behind one of the ancient oaks, his face pale, eyes sharp. He held the obsidian key in one hand, and a worn leather book in the other.

“You heard it too,” he said quietly.

Elara nodded. “It called me.”

Tobias exhaled through his nose, grim. “Then the gate is waking. And if it opens—”

He didn’t finish.

Instead, he stepped beside her, opened the book to a marked page, and said, “We don’t have much time.”