The Clockmaker's Rewind
Copyright© 2025 by Eric Ross
Chapter 11 The Inheritance
Years slipped past the shop like dust through a cracked window—quiet, inevitable. The dust settled into the floorboards where Mira now sat at the bench, her small hands threading a gear into a gutted clock. Her tongue pressed between her teeth as she worked. Shelves loomed around her, lined with clocks ticking in uneven chorus—some mended by his hands, others by Lira’s. A rhythm had formed in the shop’s bones, worn into them by time. Ten years since the antique clock broke.
He leaned against the counter. His shirt was creased at the shoulders, gray threading his hair. The old vest lay patched and worn across his chest. He watched Mira with a quiet pride that softened the lines of his face.
Lira stood by the window. Her blouse loose at the cuffs, silver in her hair. She sketched Mira’s furrowed brow, her pencil rasping faintly. Graphite smudged her sleeve, as always. Her scarf coiled on a stool nearby—its colors faded, but still warming the room.
The air smelled of oil and time.
On the highest shelf, the broken clock sat still—its smoke-stained brass untouched. A relic from that night they pushed too far. The night Mira was conceived.
“Tighten it slow,” he said.
His voice low, steady as he crossed the floor. His boots no longer rushed. Time didn’t press now.
Mira nodded. Her dark eyes matched his. She twisted the gear with careful hands, rhythm learned young.
Lira glanced up. Her smile curved faintly as her pencil paused.
Mira clicked the gear into place. The sound landed sharp in the quiet. She brushed hair from her face—dark like Lira’s once was.
“Will it turn back?” she asked.
She nodded toward the old clock. Its key sat cold beside it, untouched for years.
He followed her gaze. Memory stirred—smoke, Lira’s hands, a night unreset.
“Not anymore,” he said.
His tone stayed plain, grounded.
He rested a hand on Mira’s shoulder. Its weight held them all to now.
Lira crossed the room. Her boots soft on the boards.
She set her sketch beside Mira’s work—lines bridging past to present.
“It’s ours instead,” Lira said.
She knelt beside Mira, brushing her arm. The touch echoed years of quiet nights and fierce days.
Mira tilted her head.
“Yours too?” she asked.
Her fingers lingered on the brass. A question tied to a night she’d never know.
He met Lira’s eyes. A spark still lived there, faint but certain.
“Ours,” he said.
His voice gentled as Mira turned the gear again. Its rhythm held—steady, forward.
A week later, Mira rose early.
She crossed to a cluttered shelf and rummaged through yellowed sketches. Paper crinkled as she tugged one free.
A drawing of the broken clock. Smoke curling from its casing.
“What’s this?” she asked.
Her voice brightened.
He stepped closer. His chest tightened. The memory vivid—Lira’s cry, the bench buckling, the screech.
Lira joined them. Her breath caught faint. She touched the sketch.
“That’s how it ended,” she said. “We pushed too hard one night. It gave us you instead.”
Mira frowned, then grinned.
“So I broke it?” she asked.
Her laugh lit the room.