The Clockmaker’s Visitor

Julian Wren lived above his clock shop in the quiet corner of Barrow Street. His was the only light still burning after midnight, and it burned every night, without fail. The store window was a museum of ticking things—grandfather clocks with brass pendulums, cuckoo clocks chirping on the hour, pocket watches in velvet trays, and tiny carriage clocks with ornate keys.

People used to joke that Julian didn’t keep time—time kept Julian. No one ever saw him outside the shop, except on Thursdays when he went out for tea and a single almond biscuit. He always returned precisely one hour later, his silver hair rumpled by wind, his cuffs flecked with sawdust.

But Julian had a secret.

The clocks in his shop did more than keep time.

They held it.

At least, that's what his father told him before he disappeared into the back room thirty-seven years ago and never returned.

Julian had never entered that room since. Not once. Not even when his mother died. Not even when the whispers started—those hushed echoes that crawled under the door late at night.

On a Tuesday in March, the bell above the door rang.

That was strange enough. Julian rarely had visitors anymore, not since the internet and smartphones turned clocks into decoration. But it was past midnight, and no one should have been walking the streets.

A woman stood in the doorway.

She wore a long black coat, dripping with rain despite the clear skies. Her eyes were gray—not dull or stormy, but the color of ash, the way paper turns when burned just shy of destruction.

Julian blinked. “We’re closed.”

“I know,” she said, stepping in. “But I need something fixed.”

“I don’t do repairs at night.”

“You do tonight.”

Julian hesitated. The woman walked straight to the counter and placed something there.

It wasn’t a clock.

It was a watch—thin, silver, and elegant. But there was no crown to wind it. No visible hands. Only a glass face and a faint hum, like a breath caught between two seconds.

“What is this?” he asked.

She didn’t answer.

Julian reached out, but his fingers recoiled. The metal wasn’t cold—it was warm. Alive.

“I… I don’t think I can fix this,” he murmured.

“Yes, you can,” the woman said. “You’re the last of the Wrens. You inherited the Key.”

Julian froze. “How do you know that name?”

“I’ve been looking for it.”

He frowned. “I don’t know what you mean.”

“Of course you do. You’ve heard the ticking in your sleep. You’ve counted the minutes backward. You know how the walls bend when you wind the clocks just so. You just don’t want to believe it.”

Julian took a step back. “Who are you?”

She smiled faintly. “Call me Echo.”

“Echo of what?”

“Echo of when.”

Julian stared at the watch on the counter. “This isn’t mine.”

“No,” Echo said. “It’s yours to keep, not yours to make.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You will. But first—”

She stepped closer. Her eyes flicked toward the back room door.

“You have to open that.”

Julian’s heart clenched. “No one goes in there.”

“Time does,” Echo said softly. “Time waits in there.”

Julian’s hands shook. He hadn’t touched the doorknob since he was twelve. But something about the way Echo stood—utterly still, yet pressing forward with unseen gravity—made resistance feel like drowning.

He turned.

Each step across the wooden floor was a heartbeat. The shop fell into silence, except for the faint ticking of a hundred clocks, all slightly out of sync.

He reached the door.

The key was still in the lock. Brass. Ornate. A bird-shaped head—the Wren family seal.

He turned it.

The click was louder than it should have been. And the air behind the door smelled of wind and old paper.

Julian pushed it open.

Inside was a room untouched by time. Dustless. Ageless. Shelves lined with gears and scrolls, journals and tiny locked boxes. But at the center, on a pedestal of dark wood, stood a great clock.

It had no hands.

Just an open face, glowing slightly.

Echo stepped in behind him, her voice barely a whisper.

“Ask it the question.”

Julian didn’t need to ask which question.

He stared at the faceless clock, his voice cracking as he spoke:

“What time is it?”

The room trembled.

Something unseen shifted.

And then—

Julian wasn’t in the shop anymore.

He stood on a bridge over a broken city.

Buildings leaned like melted candles. A giant watchtower lay in pieces, its face shattered. The sky bled orange and violet, pulsing with unnatural rhythm.

And people—no, shadows of people—moved in slow, jerky patterns, their steps out of sync with the world.

A voice rang out: “Julian Wren. Keeper of Clocks. Fix what is broken.”

He turned—and saw her again. Echo.

But now she was younger. Or older. Or both.

Her eyes blazed like silver flame. “You’ve crossed the threshold.”

“What is this place?”

“The Moment Between Moments. The place your father disappeared to. The place where time hiccups.”

Julian backed away. “This is a dream.”

“It’s always a dream,” Echo said. “Until it isn’t.”

He looked around. The bridge cracked beneath his feet. Somewhere, a clock tower screamed.

“Why am I here?”

“To decide,” she said. “You inherited the Key. You can seal the fracture. But the cost is great.”

“What cost?”

“You.”

Julian shook his head. “No. I didn’t ask for this.”

“Neither did your father.”

He swallowed hard. “Is he here?”

Echo nodded slowly. She pointed to the shadows.

And then he saw it.

A man, sitting at a table in the middle of the chaos, fixing a watch.

His father.

Julian ran to him. “Dad?”

The man looked up. His face was older, tired—but familiar.

“You took your time,” he said, smiling faintly.

Julian’s eyes filled with tears. “Why didn’t you come back?”

“Because I couldn’t fix it. Not alone.”

Julian held out the watch Echo had given him.

His father reached for it, then shook his head.

“That’s not mine to use anymore. It’s yours.”

Julian turned to Echo. “If I do this, what happens?”

She stepped forward. “You repair the Flow. Restore the balance. Time moves cleanly again.”

“And me?”

“You remain here. The fracture becomes your watchtower. You become the anchor.”

Julian looked back at his father, who gave him a solemn nod.

You become the anchor.

He took a breath. The watch vibrated in his hand.

He stepped into the center of the Moment.

He opened the watch.

The hum grew louder—thunderous.

The world spun.

Julian Wren woke in his clock shop.

It was quiet.

The clocks all ticked in perfect unison.

The sky outside was pink with dawn.

The back room was open—but empty.

No pedestal. No great clock. No gears.

And no Echo.

Julian walked to the counter. The watch lay there.

Its hands had appeared.

It read: 12:00:00.

He picked it up. Turned it over.

Etched on the back: The Anchor Remembers.

He kept the watch. Wore it every day.

Customers returned. Word spread. People said Julian could repair anything now—even broken heirlooms long thought useless.

They asked how he did it.

He always smiled and said the same thing.

“I just ask the right question.”

And sometimes, when the light hit the shop just right, a strange woman would appear in the corner, watching, smiling faintly.

Echo.

She always left before the clocks struck noon.

But once, as she stepped out into the rainless night, she turned back and whispered,

“Julian. What time is it?”

And he answered,

“Now.”