Rain fell in sheets, turning the cobbled streets into mirror-slick ribbons of light and shadow. Wren pulled her coat tighter around her, squinting against the storm. The city felt too tall, too bright—glass towers loomed like silent watchers while her soaked boots clicked uselessly down unfamiliar alleys.
She clutched the broken wristwatch in her palm. It hadn't ticked in years, but she held it anyway, the way one might hold a memory.
She was almost ready to give up when she saw it: a crooked little shop, wedged between two modern buildings like a forgotten word in a new language. The sign above the door swung in the wind, creaking.
E. Thorne, Clockmaker.
She stepped closer. The windows were fogged and the door half open, wedged on a frayed rug. A faint ticking filled the air—hundreds of clocks, maybe more, whispering in disharmony. Wren pushed the door open.
The scent of old wood and oil hit her first. Then she saw them—clocks of every kind. Mantel clocks, cuckoo clocks, pocket watches. Some glowed faintly, others had no hands at all. They ticked in rhythms that overlapped and clashed, like a hundred heartbeats slightly out of sync.
Behind the counter sat an old man hunched over a workbench. His silver hair flared like wild wire, and his hands moved with the precision of a machine. He didn't look up.
"I need help," Wren said, her voice barely above the ticking.
Still, he didn't look.
"My watch—it's old. But I think it can be fixed."
The man sighed. "Not everything broken can be fixed, girl."
She hesitated, then stepped forward and placed the watch on the counter.
That's when he looked up. His eyes were pale gray—clouded, but sharp as frost.
He stared at the watch. Then at her.
"Where did you get this?"
Wren blinked. "It was my mother's."
Something passed through his expression—something unreadable.
"You should leave it," he said quietly. "And not come back."
"But—"
"Go."
She backed out slowly, the bell above the door giving a muted chime as she left. The rain had stopped. The city was quiet.
But as she turned to walk away, behind her, deep inside the shop, one of the clocks struck thirteen.