The clockmakers gift

ne: The S

ed with squat brick buildings that all seemed to share the same tired breath. There was comfort in its sameness: the crumbling bookstore with the cat in the w

r noticed th

a shade darker than its neighbors. Its windows were dusty, their panes slightly warped, as

in – Hor

e smoke, carved deli

en any of this unti

ke distant drums. She hadn't brought an umbrella. When the downpour began,

aded blue, fraye

every awning on this street. But this one

cks. Dozens of them. Tall ones, squat ones, clocks with gilded faces and clocks that barely tic

r in her chest. A memo

ed open

ost shops had, but a low, warm note like

ony of time layered over itself. Grandfather clocks loomed in the corners, their pendulums swaying like slow, steady heartbeats. Cuckoo cl

d, not sure what s

it early,"

. She hadn'

ing the gears of an open clock. His white shirt was rolled at the sleeves, revealin

id, her voice too

t his eyes were a startling blue-clear and s

said, peering at her with faint amusement.

dn't mean to intrude. I was just

"All the best journeys

near the counter. "Come in

ere was nothing particularly warm about the shop. It wa

ike a memory wa

epped