"The Clockmaker’s Secret"
In a crooked little shop tucked between a bakery and a tailor's, the old clockmaker worked in silence. His name was Mr. Anselm, and he hadn’t changed in over fifty years—literally. Rumor had it he didn’t age. Children whispered that he fed on time itself.
Every clock in his shop ticked in perfect harmony, save for one: a grand, brass-bezeled timepiece that sat high on a shelf, unmoving. No one ever saw him touch it.
One rainy afternoon, eleven-year-old Mira slipped into the shop, soaked and shivering. Her mother had vanished two weeks ago, last seen walking past the old clockmaker’s store. Desperate for answers, Mira came seeking something no one else dared to: the truth.
“Lost, are you?” Mr. Anselm asked without looking up.
“I’m looking for my mother,” she said.
He nodded slowly, gesturing toward the broken clock. “Not all who are lost are gone forever.”
Mira stared at it. The hands were frozen at 3:47.
“That’s the time she disappeared,” she whispered.
Mr. Anselm finally looked up, his eyes deep with sadness. “Time is a fragile thing. This clock holds moments that should not have been. Sometimes, I trap them—just long enough to fix them.”
“You have her?” Mira’s voice trembled.
He stood, took the clock down, and handed it to her. It felt warm.
“Wind it,” he said.
She hesitated, then turned the key.
With a soft click, the shop changed. Light flooded in. Dust vanished. The air smelled like spring.
Behind her, the door opened—and there stood her mother, confused, eyes wide.
“Mira?”
Tears burst forth. She ran into her arms.
Mr. Anselm watched, a faint smile on his face. But lines crept across his skin, his hair graying.
“You gave your time to save hers,” Mira realized.
He nodded. “A fair trade.”
Moments later, the shop was empty. The clocks were gone.
Years passed. People said the clockmaker vanished that day. But Mira knew better. On quiet nights, she could still hear the faint ticking of a single clock under her bed—frozen at 3:47.
She never wound it again.
