The Clockmaker's Son

Trigger Warning: This story contains themes of grief, death, substance use, and psychological distress.

The town of Greybridge crept along at its own quiet pace - never quite keeping up with everywhere else.

The trains arrived behind schedule, while the river slowed right down under the hot sun; folks - mostly elders - insisted their timepieces never matched up with others’. A few figured it was on account of all clocks being built by Arthur Quinn. More believed Greybridge just refused to release its own pieces of time.

As Elias Quinn got off the bus following a decade gone, the atmosphere seemed heavy - like it held onto memories. Grit, sap from pines, a hint of wet earth before storms broke. That odor used to stick on his dad's skin.

He lugged a tiny suitcase, while tucking a sympathy note from the mayor deep in his coat. The burial was done by then - happened yesterday - he missed it completely.

It felt simpler, he thought to himself. No last sentences to mess up, no sorry needed either. Only gray dust sitting inside a metal container atop the fireplace ledge - same place in a home that stayed frozen since his childhood days.

The workshop sat just outside the village - part house, part tomb. Clocks crowded every windowpane, their glass fogged from old air and dust. Every clock murmured a soft tick, kind of like a drowsing animal's pulse. Elias turned the key, then stepped inside where noise rolled out: countless rhythms clashing, never quite matching up, almost as if this cramped space held the entire town’s heartbeat.

He froze, ears straining.

He whispered after a pause, "It's coming back to me."

He hadn’t spoken a word until that moment after getting there.

Dust floated in slanted beams, almost like wisps of soft fabric. Over on the bench sat gear long left alone - wrenches, greasy cloths, a lens hovering over an undone timepiece. Scrawled along dog-eared pages were his dad’s words, sharp and steady as ticking gears. “Never crank too hard. Feel how it moves.”

In the back near the wall, hidden under cloth, sat a bulky shape - hints of shoulders, a curved head showing through the material. When he yanked off the cover, what appeared wasn’t like regular clocks. Missing hands entirely, just layer after layer of metal cogs meshed together in messy harmony. Instead of numerals, tiny foggy glass orbs took their place, looking almost blind. Swinging beneath it, fastened by thread, dangled a scrap labeled: DON’T REPAIR.

Elias just looked. It seemed planned - like maybe his dad meant for him to run into it.

He'd forever been the kid smashing stuff just to peek inside. That’s what made his dad quit letting him near the tools, sparked fights till neither spoke anymore. Getting this timepiece running might stick it to the past - maybe even say thanks before walking away.

He put his bag on the floor then flipped open the tool case.

He spent hours there, hearing the steady clicks from every direction. With each twist of a screw, it sounded almost alive - like a pulse under skin. The sky darkened outside, while rain tapped softly on the glass. Then he spotted the problem - one piece was off track, another coiled way past its limit.

He pushed it gently till it clicked. After a shaky start, the cogs started turning - timid at first, yet picking up speed soon after. Before long, the entire clock front whirled like it was alive, pulsing with hidden energy.

Then suddenly, the ticking just ended.

Fog followed close behind.

Elias scowled - everything totally quiet. Then he moved toward the doorway, shoving it wide. Silence pressed in all around while his boots hit the floorboards.

Out here, the road felt stuck halfway through a breath. Drops floated without falling - tiny marbles caught in silence. A cat froze mid-jump, paws stretched, fur ruffled by air now still. Everything, all at once, looked like an old snapshot.

He whispered, “What the hell…”

Inside once more, cogs kept grinding - calm, constant - as their glow danced across the room. Twisting the key counterclockwise made everything outdoors play in reverse: the feline floated down from its jump, droplets rose into the heavens, while daylight crept back toward dawn.

Elias felt his heart pound. Forward he pushed it, then moments flickered alive - just briefly - before freezing all over again. A chill slid through him; slowly it hit home - the clock didn't track time… it called the shots.

On the second evening, Elias started taking more risks. Because he wanted to catch the lamp man’s route, he turned back sixty minutes. Then he jumped ahead twenty-four hours - just to witness the place stirring once more. Every shift made the atmosphere waver, kind of like warmth above pavement.

Once tiredness came, he dropped into his dad’s worn-out seat, eyes locked on the quiet roads. Folks from back then stayed stuck like that - one doing chores, another grabbing bread, some mutt halfway through shaking off water - all caught in time like bugs in sap.

He kept thinking about how long he'd stayed away from here, yet those notes from his dad still sat unread.

“I remember,” he said again, though the words didn’t feel like his. “I remember the sound of him winding the clocks every Sunday morning.”

He kinda hoped he hadn't.

Sleep didn’t come easy. In his dreams, the workshop glowed - his dad at the workbench, spinning parts that sparkled like treasure. His words mixed with the steady tick: Time’s broken, Elias. Just keep pulling it ahead.

He opened his eyes to that familiar quiet, everything around him frozen like before.

Over three days, he kept fiddling with it. Twisting the key every which direction didn’t fix the flow. Now and then, the village jumped ahead - leaves dropping fast, dark shapes sliding on plaster - but folks stayed frozen without help. They lived broken up, flashing through bits: a grin here, an eye twitch there, a drop of sadness - all stuck repeating.

As he spun the gears too far back, the whole shed shifted. Stuff showed up - things he’d never seen - and right there on the table was an older-looking copy of his dad’s notebook, flipped open to a partly filled sheet. Wet ink still shimmered.

He read:

Time doesn’t fit perfect things. When you fix it, it breaks anyway.

If you come across this, kid, just let the clock alone. Not because it mends - 'cause it holds tight.

Elias shut the book, his hands trembling.

He came across Maribel’s store early the next day. Behind the register, her face shifted - now young, now old - as if stuck flipping between shock and heartache. One second she seemed two decades young, the next nearly ancient. Her voice echoed faintly through each transformation.

“Maribel,” he muttered - aware she wouldn’t answer. Yet the name slipped out anyway, quiet against the still air.

Yet suddenly their gazes locked - she broke the silence.

“Arthur told me you’d come back.”

Elias stiffened. What she said came out soft - like it had traveled far to reach him.

“You shouldn’t have wound it,” she said. “He tried to stop it years ago. The clocks only wanted to keep our hours safe, not trap us in them.”

He moved closer to her, yet she faded into glowing pieces mixed with dark bits, the store twisting like waves. Everything started caving down on itself.

He staggered toward the workshop. Air seemed off - overly heavy, with hues shimmering that shouldn't be there. Clocks along the wall blurred into one mess, pointers whipping around fast. Under all the noise, a whisper rose: Honor the beat.

It hit him right there - freezing time completely was the one move left.

The idea emptied him out. Wiping it clean would wipe out any scraps left of his dad's life - the scents, the little sounds, how it felt when he seemed near. Yet failing meant Greybridge stayed frozen in time, every instant looping till nothing mattered anymore.

He grabbed a hammer.

“I remember,” he whispered, “how you said everything can be fixed.”

He took a swing. Glass from the clock's face exploded, light pouring out like it was alive. Something roared inside the walls - more than air, less than voice. After that - nothing.

As Elias blinked awake, droplets pattered down once more. Everything beyond the glass kept shifting. The feline touched ground softly while nearby, the young delivery helper grinned. Over at her window box, Maribel tipped a jug - her tune slightly out of sync. Moments ticked forward like before.

In the shed, each timepiece just froze.

He was right there with them, quiet all around. This moment - different somehow - it actually felt okay.

He took his dad's ashes from the shelf above the fireplace, walked down to the riverbank, then released them into the air. The wind pulled at the gray dust, mixing it with the breeze before dropping it into the stream below. Water grabbed what was left, rolling it through ripples till there was nothing to see.

While heading home through the streets, he saw folks stopping to adjust their clocks, confused about how much time they'd lost. Not one person recalled the event. Maybe forgetting was a kindness.

By the shop entrance, Elias paused. After a moment, he grabbed a busted clock off the wall - one ancient piece with a shattered dial and no hands - and placed it by the window ledge. No ticking sound came out. Just dim early light bounced back.

He turned it slowly, just one time - then let go.

When he got to the town's outer limit, the downpour had already let up. Ahead lay the pavement - damp, shiny, almost mirroring the fresh stretch of sky.

After he moved on, inside the stillness of the store, a sound snapped - just one soft click - before everything went hushed once more.

Back then, time just let him off the hook.