The Clockmaker’s Son

CHAPTER ONE: The Shop

Tom pressed his forehead to the steering wheel and stayed like that for a while, engine ticking softly beneath him. He hadn’t even turned off the car. The shop was just sitting there across the street—small, square, brick-faced like always. Same dusty green paint on the door. Same faded letters above it: Ellis Timepieces.

He didn’t remember it ever being open. Not really. It was just where his father went in the morning and came home from at night, smelling like brass and something burned.

He cut the engine and got out.

The bell above the door still worked. It let out a weak ring when he pushed inside. Dust swam in the light. Clocks lined every wall—mantle clocks, cuckoo clocks, old grandfather clocks leaning slightly, like they were tired. Most of them weren’t running. The ones that were ticked out of sync, like a room full of stubborn hearts.

“You’re late,” a voice said.

Tom looked up. Behind the counter sat Mr. Klein, his father’s old assistant—or maybe just a friend who never left. He looked smaller than Tom remembered. Hair thinner. Eyes the same—sharp, a little smug.

“You’re still alive,” Tom said.

Klein shrugged. “Disappointed?”

“Little bit.”

He laughed once and stood, bones cracking. “He said you’d come. I said you wouldn’t.”

Tom walked further in, hands in his pockets. “You still running this place?”

“Just keeping the dust off until you showed. You gonna sell it?”

“I don’t know.”

“Well, don’t clean anything if you are. People love authenticity.”

Tom looked at the counter. Same chip in the corner from when he was eight and tried to swing his lunchbox like a baseball bat. No one had ever fixed it.

Klein came out from behind the counter, holding a manila envelope.

“He left this for you.”

Tom opened it. Inside: a key, a folded letter, and a black-and-white photo. The photo showed a boy—maybe six or seven—grinning beside a tall grandfather clock, arms wrapped around it like a trophy.

“That me?” Tom asked.

“Hell if I know. You kids all look the same in those old pictures.”

Tom didn’t open the letter. He slid it back into the envelope and pocketed it.

“Place is yours now,” Klein said. “Clocks too. He kept working, you know. All the way up until he—”

“Dropped dead,” Tom finished.

Klein gave a half-shrug. “Heart. Didn’t suffer.”

Tom moved to the far wall. There was a grandfather clock he vaguely recognized. Cherry wood. Wide brass pendulum. He opened the glass door. The pendulum wasn’t swinging. The clock face was stuck at 11:13.

Inside, taped to the back panel, was a small slip of paper.

Mr. Alvarez – likes it loud. Don’t fix the chime.

Tom stared at the note.

Klein came up behind him, leaned on the counter. “He kept notes on all of ‘em. Personal touches. People got used to their clocks a certain way. He thought changing them was rude.”

“He never fixed anything in our house.”

Klein didn’t say anything.

Tom closed the clock gently. Looked around at all the others.

“How many of these still need to go back?”

“Half, maybe more. Some haven’t been claimed in years.”

Tom nodded once. No plan forming yet—just a heaviness settling in.

Klein clapped his hands once, slow and dry. “Well. I’m heading home. You staying upstairs?”

“I guess.”

“Electric still works. Heat’s spotty. The tea kettle’s broken.”

“I don’t drink tea.”

“Your father did.” Klein started toward the door. “He wasn’t good at saying things, but he was good at clocks. It’s not the worst way to be remembered.”

The bell rang behind him.

Tom stood alone in the shop, listening to the clocks argue with each other. He sat down behind the counter. Laid the key on the surface. The letter beside it.

He didn’t open it.