In the quiet town of Tilt, time seemed to move differently—slow in the daylight, sluggish in the rain, and heavy in the hours before dawn. The streets were narrow, cobblestoned, and flanked by buildings whose bricks leaned toward each other as if conspiring. Shops came and went like seasons—bakery one year, locksmith the next—but one storefront had remained for as long as anyone could remember: a small shop with a peeling, weather-worn sign that read in faded gold lettering:
“Harlan’s Clocks — Repaired and Restored”
The front window displayed clocks of every size and shape—grandfather clocks with solemn faces, cuckoo clocks whose carved birds never quite emerged, and sleek brass carriage clocks that gleamed even in dim light. Behind them, dust drifted like lazy snow.
Gideon Harlan, the shop’s sole occupant and owner, was a man built from the same parts as his craft: all gears, precision, and quiet ticking. His back was slightly bent from decades hunched over workbenches, his spectacles always sliding down the bridge of his nose. He spoke sparingly, and when he did, his voice was measured, like each word had to be set carefully into place. People in Tilt respected him in the way one respects a grandfather clock—you didn’t tamper with it, you didn’t question it, and you certainly didn’t expect it to change.
But the townsfolk whispered. Not about Gideon himself—though some muttered that he was far older than he looked—but about the rumors of a timepiece in his possession, hidden in the back room where customers were never invited. They said it was a pocket watch unlike any other, a silver thing that gleamed even in darkness, whose ticking could be heard in your bones. Some said it could turn back time. Others claimed it could steal your future. A few said the watch chose who was allowed to use it, and the ones it turned away… never returned to the shop. No one ever admitted to having seen it. Not until Lira came.
It was a night when rain blurred the streets and even the church bells sounded muffled. Lira stumbled through the crooked alleys, her dark hair plastered to her face, the hem of her dress heavy with water. She had the desperate look of someone who wasn’t quite running from danger, but from grief that had grown teeth. She stopped before the shop as though pulled there.
The bell above the door chimed—not the cheery tinkle of ordinary shops, but a single deep note, like a grandfather clock marking the hour in a darkened room. Inside, the air smelled of machine oil and old wood. Hundreds of tiny ticks filled the silence, each clock keeping its own rhythm. Gideon sat behind the counter, working on the delicate innards of a mantel clock. He didn’t look up when she entered.
“You’re late,”
He said simply, though they had never met.
Lira hesitated, rain pooling at her feet.
“I… heard you fix more than just clocks.”
“That depends who’s asking,”
Gideon replied, still bent over his work.
“My brother,”
She said, her voice breaking on the word.
“They said you—”
She stopped herself, her hands trembling as she untied a bundle from beneath her coat. She laid it on the counter: a faded military jacket, the kind worn by soldiers from Tilt five years ago. The fabric was worn thin, one sleeve torn at the shoulder, and the smell of earth and smoke still clung to it.
“He’s been dead five years,”
Gideon said without looking at the jacket.
“No,”
She whispered.
“He can’t be.”
Something in her tone made him finally look at her. His eyes were pale, almost colorless, but sharp. They studied her for a long moment, the way a watchmaker studies a stubborn mechanism—searching for the flaw.
“I can pay,”
She said quickly, pulling a small leather bag from her coat. Coins clinked onto the counter. Gideon sighed, pushing the coins back toward her.
“Payment isn’t in gold.”
He stood, moving slowly into the shadows of the back room. Lira heard the faint sound of a latch clicking, the creak of a chest opening. When he returned, he was holding a pocket watch. It was beautiful in a way that made her uneasy—polished silver with intricate engravings that seemed to shift when the light hit them. The chain was darker, almost black, like it had been burned. When Gideon opened it, the ticking that filled the shop faltered, as though every other clock had stopped to listen.
“Turn the dial backward,”
He said softly,
“and you’ll have one hour with him. But when the hour ends, you will lose the same time from your own life.”
Lira’s breath caught. She thought of her brother’s laugh, of the way he had called her kiddo even when she was taller than him, of the morning he had gone to war and never returned. She thought of the last letter he’d sent, now frayed at the edges from being read too many times. She didn’t hesitate.
The moment she twisted the dial, the shop fell away. Light bloomed around her—warm, golden, smelling of grass and summer. She stood in a wide field she knew well, the place where she and her brother had played as children. And there he was—standing by the old willow tree, alive, whole, smiling at her as though no time had passed.
She ran to him, and the sound of her own laughter startled her. They embraced, his arms strong around her shoulders.
“I thought you were gone,”
She whispered into his shirt.
“I thought you were dreaming,”
He said with a grin. They talked as if no years had separated them. About their childhood mischief, about the books they used to steal from the library, about their parents. She didn’t tell him how he’d died. She couldn’t.
But too soon, the watch in her pocket began to tick louder. The field grew dim at the edges, the colors draining away. Her brother’s voice wavered, his face blurring like wet ink.
“No,”
She begged, clutching at his sleeve.
“You have to let me go,”
He said, and then he was gone. She was back in the shop, gasping, her hands gripping the counter for balance. Gideon was there, steadying her. Her knees felt weak. Her vision swam. And when she caught sight of herself in the shop’s mirror, a single streak of white ran through her hair like a frozen river.
“Was it worth it?”
Gideon asked quietly. She touched the silver strand. Her eyes still burned from tears, but she smiled.
“Every second.”
Gideon nodded once, took the watch, and locked it away again. She left without another word, stepping back into the rain. Behind her, the deep chime of the shop bell echoed. And somewhere, in the darkness of the back room, the pocket watch ticked on, waiting.
