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 jingling like it had been waiting years to ring.

“I heard you fix things,” she said.

Elijah looked up. “Only if they tick.”

She held up a wristwatch. Broken. Old. A simple thing—leather strap, cracked face, stopped hands.

“It was my dad’s,” she said. “He… he passed away last year. It hasn't worked since.”

Elijah took it gently, examined it like it was the most precious thing in the world. “I’ll see what I can do.”

Over the next hour, he worked while she sat quietly, staring at the shelves full of cuckoo clocks and pocket watches, all ticking in quiet symphony.

“Why do you keep fixing clocks no one buys?” she finally asked.

Elijah smiled. “Because time deserves respect. And sometimes, people don’t need new time—they need to mend the time they’ve lost.”

She didn’t answer. But when he handed the repaired watch back, the hands ticking softly once more, her eyes filled with something he hadn’t seen in a long time—hope.

“How much?”

“No charge,” he said.

She blinked. “Why?”

Elijah looked out the window, where the city kept rushing. “Because every once in a while, time gives us a second chance. Might as well return the favor.”

She left without another word.

The next day, another person came in. Then another the day after. Word spread—not through ads or posts—but through quiet voices that said, “There’s a man who fixes more than just clocks.”

Elijah’s shop never became famous. But it became something rarer: meaningful. A place where broken time—and broken hearts—could be gently put back together.

And somewhere, tucked away in the sound of ticking gears and jasmine tea, was the simple truth:

Sometimes, healing starts with listening. Even to something as small as a heartbeat… or a clock.