The Final Tick

Zaman’s back was almost always sore, his eyes perpetually strained from countless hours bent over his cluttered workbench, meticulously fixing the watches and clocks people brought to him. His tiny shop was cramped and dimly lit, tucked away on an old street rarely touched by the light of day. The air was thick with the smell of brass and dust, and the gentle, layered ticking of hundreds of timepieces filled the silence. Each clock carried its own story, its own distinct rhythm, and Zaman treated every single one as though it were a part of himself.

In that way, the clocks and watches he mended were more than mere objects; to Zaman, they were lives intertwined with his own. He treated each timepiece as his first and only love. His eyes would gloss over with a quiet passion as he examined each one, from the gleaming faces of pocket watches to the worn edges of all the clocks and watches. No matter how damaged, how hopeless a timepiece appeared, Zaman was committed to giving it a renewed gift of time.

His dedication had earned him a reputation in the city and there was not a soul that was not aware of him and his talents. People came from miles away to see him, to trust his steady hands with their most precious heirlooms. They called him “the protector of time,” a name he carried with pride but also, perhaps, a hint of irony. As he was known for safeguarding others’ time, while his own lease on life was reaching its deadline.

The strain on his body had grown over the years, though Zaman ignored it as best he could. Recently, though, it had become impossible to ignore. His breathing no longer fell into sync with the rhythmic ticking around him, each breath coming slower, heavier. His chest tightened painfully as he tried to continue working, the same ticking he once fell in love with, was dragging him to the end of the finish line.

One evening, after a long day of repairs, Zaman leaned back in his chair, exhaustion seeping into his bones. He closed his eyes, letting the silence between the ticks wash over him. The room, usually a comfort, felt strangely foreign in that moment, and Zaman’s gaze drifted across the faces of the clocks on his walls, the shelves, the desk. Hundreds of faces, hundreds of ticking hearts—lives he had helped extend, yet none of them truly his.

A glint of polished wood caught his eye, drawing his attention to a large, weathered clock on the far wall. It was one of his oldest possessions, a piece that had been in his family for generations. His grandfather had built it, assembling each piece with care and patience while a young Zaman watched in awe, absorbing every detail. That clock had been his introduction to the world of timepieces, his first taste of the intricate beauty and mystery within them.

For years, Zaman had taken great care of the old wooden clock, tending to it with the same devotion he showed to every other watch and clock in his shop. But now, standing before it, he felt something else—a sorrow, a deep regret. The clock was more than just a family heirloom; it was a mirror of his own life. He had poured himself into this craft, devoted every waking hour to protecting time for others, and yet he had never really lived for himself.

With a heavy heart, Zaman reached out and brushed his fingers against the clock’s face. He could almost feel his grandfather’s rough hands guiding his, the same steady, practiced hands that had taught him the art of clockmaking. Slowly, reverently, he opened the clock’s casing and reached behind it, his fingers brushing against the cool, metallic outline of the batteries. One by one, he removed them, feeling an inexplicable calm as he pulled each one free.

With the final battery removed, the clock released its last tick. The room fell silent. Zaman took a deep, rattling breath as the silence settled around him, pressing in on him from every corner of the room. It was an unfamiliar sensation—the absence of sound in a space that had always been alive with ticking. He felt as though time itself had stopped, leaving him adrift in a stillness that was both soothing and unsettling.

Clutching the clock to his chest, Zaman walked slowly back to his desk and sat down, his fingers tracing the edge of its face, as if he were trying to hold onto something he could no longer feel. For the first time, he allowed himself to confront the regret that had been simmering beneath the surface all these years. Why had he cared so deeply about protecting time, about controlling its flow, when he could have been using it to create memories, to experience life beyond the bounds of his shop?

He thought of all the things he had missed, the moments he had sacrificed for his craft. He had spent a lifetime extending time for others, yet he had never let himself be part of the world he was so determined to protect. He had grown old alone, with only the clocks to keep him company.

Zaman leaned back, closing his eyes as memories drifted through his mind like scenes from an old film. He saw his younger self, filled with ambition and wonder, the quiet pride in his grandfather’s eyes as he passed on the family trade. He remembered the late nights, the flicker of candlelight illuminating the tiny gears and screws scattered across his workbench, and the satisfied smiles of customers as they walked away with their beloved timepieces restored. It was a life he had loved, yet in that silence, he finally admitted to himself that it was not enough.

His eyelids grew heavier, his chest tighter as he released a long, slow breath. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, as if time itself were bearing down on him, pressing him back into his chair. And yet, in that final moment, he felt a strange sense of peace. Perhaps, he thought, this was his own way of letting go of time—his last chance to surrender to it, to let it flow without trying to control or protect it.

The stillness gave way to sound, a gentle ticking that grew louder, filling the room once more. Each clock resumed its own rhythm, a symphony of ticks and tocks echoing through the space. Zaman’s hands relaxed, slipping away from the clock he held as he felt his own heartbeat slow, syncing with the rhythmic hum around him. His final thought was a quiet one: a wish that he had allowed his own life to tick with the freedom he had given to all the clocks around him.

As his heartbeat fell silent, the shop continued to tick, each clock marking the time that had outlasted its keeper. Zaman, the protector of time, had finally been left behind, and the clocks kept on, their steady pulse an eternal reminder of moments that could not be regained.