The Day The Clock Was Left Unwound

The clock stopped while her hand was still on the key and she knew by the sudden slackness of its weight that time would not resume in the way she had prepared for.

The workshop smelled of oil dust and old wood and the light from the narrow window fell in a pale stripe across the worktable. The ticking that had filled the room for years was gone leaving behind a quiet that felt deliberate rather than accidental. She stood very still listening for a sound that did not return. Outside a horse passed and its hooves struck the street with steady indifference. The world had not noticed the loss.

She lowered her hand slowly and set the key down beside the open clock face. The exposed gears caught the light without movement as if frozen mid thought. She did not close the case. The act of leaving it open felt honest. When she stepped back the silence followed her like something newly learned.

She remembered another day years earlier when the same clock had been newly delivered. The town had been bright with late summer and the shop doors stood open to invite what little breeze there was. She had been apprenticed there recently learning the patient work of repair and care.

He had carried the clock in himself holding it with a careful strength that made her attentive. His name was Edmund and he spoke it plainly when they were introduced. He did not rush his words. When he set the clock down he ran his fingers lightly along the case as if greeting an old companion.

They spoke at first only of the work. The condition of the gears. The age of the wood. The way time leaves marks that are not always damage. He returned often after that sometimes with another piece sometimes with nothing at all. Their conversations lengthened gradually shaped by the shared rhythm of the shop.

Silence became familiar between them. The ticking of clocks filled what they did not say. She learned the sound of his steps before he entered and the way he paused at the threshold as if allowing the room to adjust to him. He learned her habits and waited when she needed time.

Autumn arrived quietly. The air cooled and the light shifted. One evening as she locked the door he walked with her along the street where leaves gathered near the curbs. He spoke then of an offer to take work in another city one known for its workshops and trade. His voice carried no urgency only fact.

She listened and felt the knowledge settle with careful weight. She congratulated him. The words were true and costly. He did not ask her to say more and she was grateful for the restraint.

After that each meeting felt counted. The clocks continued their steady work marking hours that felt increasingly deliberate. Once their hands touched as they reached for the same tool and neither moved away at once. The contact was brief and devastating. The ticking filled the space again.

The morning he was to leave the shop felt altered. The light seemed thinner. He stood near the door and thanked her for what she had taught him without specifying what that was. She answered with equal care. When he left the sound of his steps faded and did not return.

Life moved forward with its expected insistence. She took over the shop fully. Work filled her days and steadied her. She learned to live within the quiet she had chosen. It was not empty. It was simply disciplined.

Years passed. The town aged gently. One winter afternoon a clock arrived bearing a mark she recognized. The sight of it tightened something in her chest she had not realized was still responsive.

They met again in the shop among the familiar smells and sounds. He looked older and steadier. When he spoke her name it carried recognition without demand. They worked together briefly in practiced silence.

At last he spoke of how time had taught him the cost of leaving things unfinished. She listened and felt the truth of it resonate. When she answered she told him she had learned how to keep things running without pretending they had not once stopped.

They stood among the clocks listening to their varied rhythms. He reached for her hand and she let him. The contact was warm and unhurried and free of illusion.

When they parted it was with intention. He stepped out into the street and she did not follow. The door closed softly behind him.

Now she stood alone in the workshop with the open clock before her. She did not rewind it. She closed the case gently and set it aside. The silence remained but it no longer asked to be filled.

She opened the door and let the afternoon light in. The town moved on outside steady and unremarkable. Time would continue as it always did not repaired but understood. She returned to her work carrying what had been honored and what had been allowed to stop.