The clockmaker's Gift
The Clockmaker’s Gift" In the heart of a fading city, where skyscrapers scraped the sky and people moved faster than time, lived an old man named Elijah—the last clockmaker on Bellwood Street. His shop was squeezed between a shiny phone store and a trendy coffee bar that sold $10 lattes topped with gold flakes. People often passed his dusty window without a glance, distracted by screens and earbuds. But Elijah didn't mind. He had long made peace with the fact that the world no longer cared about ticking hands and winding gears. Every morning, he’d brew a pot of jasmine tea, flip the "OPEN" sign, and get to work restoring forgotten clocks, even if no customers came in. His tools were old, his glasses always slipping down his nose, but his hands—his hands were steady as time itself. Then came the girl. She was maybe seventeen, eyes shadowed like she hadn’t slept in days. She stood outside for nearly ten minutes before she finally pushed the door open, the bell above j...