Tea with the Timekeeper

The train had vanished, leaving only a hiss of escaping steam and the dull roar of the station. Nora’s shoes clicked against the tile floor, restless and alone, until a thin, golden light caught her eye. A narrow door, tucked behind a wall of ivy, pulsed softly—almost as if it were keeping time. She stubbed her toe on a forgotten suitcase. “Fantastic,” she muttered.

Something about the station felt off today, as if the world had skipped a beat. The door pulsed in rhythm with it. Curious, or maybe desperate, she stepped closer—and the golden light seemed to fold around her, pulling her forward, as if it had been waiting across all the moments she had missed. For a fleeting second, she imagined someone else had come here first, lost in the same impatience and longing. A pigeon perched on the ivy gave her a judging look, as if disappointed by her clumsiness.

A soft voice tugged at her, almost a sigh, carrying the faintest hint of laughter. “Come here,” it whispered, as if the moment itself had been waiting.

Her phone lay dead in her pocket, dark and useless. Another long day at the desk. Another stack of emails left unanswered. Another train she’d miss. But the door… it sparked a flicker of hope she hadn’t felt in months.

Out of habit—or perhaps despair—she let her senses guide her. Her pulse quickened despite exhaustion. The ivy brushed her fingers, cool and damp. The golden light behind the door glowed warmer, almost comforting, yet caution clung to each step. The hum of the station dimmed, as though the world had paused to watch her move.

Then came the light—slow, deliberate, measured—revealing a table set for two beneath a clockwork tree. Its leaves turned like gears, one wobbling back onto its branch as if it had a mind of its own. A man in a silver waistcoat rose to greet her.

“Ah,” he said. “You’re right on time.”

His eyes gleamed like polished brass. A crooked nose. A chain of watches dangled from his sleeve. Nora blinked, uncertain whether to laugh or run.

“I’ve never met a man with so many watches,” she said, half-smiling.

A bird landed on her hand, wings fluttering at perfect intervals. Its feathers caught the light, gold at the edges, like sunlight trapped in motion.

“You look tired,” he said gently. “Sit. Time can wait a while.”

He poured tea into delicate cups. Honey-colored, steaming, faintly lilac-scented—memory in liquid form. One cup wobbled, teetered on the edge, and Nora caught it, nearly spilling it.

“Doesn’t time feel like syrup?” he asked, strange yet oddly comforting. She took a sip. Exhaustion slipped away like a coat shrugged from her shoulders. Warmth filled her chest. It was the best tea she had ever tasted.

“I didn’t get your name,” she said. “Do you live here?”

Distant laughter drifted through the garden, circling the table like wind. The light thickened, golden and slow. A leaf spun slowly, wobbling, almost laughing.

“Always the afternoon in the garden,” he murmured. The watches on his sleeve ticked softly, a heartbeat beneath the still air.

Nora looked around. The clockwork tree gleamed, each leaf a small mirror catching the endless afternoon. Somewhere faintly, a train whistle called. For a moment, she couldn’t tell if it belonged to the world she’d left—or if time was calling her back.

Letters were stitched above his coat’s breast pocket, neat and deliberate. A large plume feather obscured most of them.

K E E P E R

As he leaned to pour more tea, the feather shifted.

T I M E K E E P E R

“The guests have arrived,” he said softly. “They’re here to join us.”

The golden light thickened, warm and slow. Familiarity tugged at her chest, as if she’d seen this longing before—in faces she had not yet met.

An old woman settled beside her. Her laughter was quiet, soft under her breath. Her dress shimmered faintly as she lifted her cup, eyes softening, as though she had once known the weight of endless days—the same way Nora did now.

The Timekeeper tended to clocks shaped like blossoms, speaking gently to each one.

Across the table, a thin man in brown overalls sketched the same flower over and over, chasing time slipping through his fingers.

A child in a sailor’s hat stirred her tea with a golden spoon. Every so often she held it to her ear and whispered something too softly for Nora to catch, as if listening for the seconds she herself had once let slip away, before she even knew their worth. One spoon twirled in the air like a baton, narrowly missing Nora’s cheek.

Nora’s teacup never emptied. No matter how many times she drank, its surface remained still, reflecting the light, the leaves, the garden—and herself.

Then the golden spoon slipped from the child’s hand.

Everyone gasped, though no one moved. Nora reached for it. The handle was warm, as if she had been holding it already.

The tea’s surface held her reflection—softer, younger, almost like a stranger seated across the table.

“How long have I been here?” she asked.

The Timekeeper laughed quietly, a sound caught between a tick and a breath.

“Long enough,” he said. “You’ve joined us before.” His voice carried the weight of a memory not fully hers, yet familiar.

He touched her wrist. Beneath his fingers, something pulsed in rhythm with the clocks—a heartbeat woven through countless afternoons.

The guests returned to their tea. The golden spoon returned to the child’s cup. Nora looked up. Every face at the table mirrored her own, an echo of moments she had nearly forgotten.

“What are your names?”

“No need for names here,” he said. “We’ve all stopped needing.”

Reality edged back in. A small part of Nora still needed. She needed out.

She rose slowly from the table, wandering through the hedges. The guests moved quietly, absorbed in their own rituals. For a moment, she felt like an outsider looking into a world she might one day know.

Half-buried in the soil, she found a cracked clock. Its glass fractured, gears turning weakly. In its face, she saw herself again—messy hair, mascara smudged, a paper cup of coffee cooling in her hand.

Then the second hand twitched.

And the garden breathed.

A faint hum of her life beyond the garden tugged at her: a phone vibrating, emails piling up, the glow of her apartment’s lamp. Her mother’s voice called softly from somewhere she hadn’t been in weeks: Nora… are you home yet?

The reflection on the cracked clock pulsed in time with those echoes. The golden light and ticking trees felt distant, as if the garden itself had paused to let her remember.

The Timekeeper appeared beside her. Calm, grounding.

“You don’t need to remember all that,” he said. “Rest is mercy.”

His smile didn’t reach his eyes.

Nora and the Timekeeper walked back to the table.

He lifted the teapot. “One last cup,” he said. “For courage to stay.”

Nora hesitated. The garden hummed with perfect peace—too still, too silent.

“I’ve carried enough weight to know it hurts,” she said softly, “but I’d rather live it than escape it.”

She tipped the cup over. Tea spilled across the grass, seeping into the soil like light dissolving.

The garden shuddered. Clocks froze. Flowers folded in on themselves. Guests stopped mid-breath, smiles caught halfway between welcome and warning.

The Timekeeper sighed. “You’ll be back,” he said. “When the noise hurts again. They always come back.”

Nora turned and ran toward the golden door. Behind her, the ticking slowed, then stopped. Silence pressed against her like water.

She stumbled out into the station—night, or maybe dawn, she couldn’t tell. The air was cold and fast. Announcements blared.

She stepped onto the train. The station blurred: footsteps, voices, the rush of people—but it all felt distant, like someone else’s memory.

In a passing window, she caught a memory of the garden: the Timekeeper at an empty chair, flowers still, the clockwork trees paused in golden light. She reflected on it briefly, letting the memory warm her, like a place she could carry inside.

Her watch spun wildly in her hand. Tick, tick, tick—not perfect, not neat, just hers. The scent of lilac clung stubbornly, a whisper of a world she could no longer stay in.

The train moved forward, and she moved with it, carrying the garden in her mind.

Her life was messy, loud, alive. Missed emails, spilled coffee—proof that chaos belonged to her. She didn’t look back. The garden would wait. Her life was here.

For the first time in months, it was enough. Around her, the station roared. Inside, there was silence—and she knew, finally, that this messy, loud, imperfect life was hers to live.