Preisha Writes

The clockmaker’s shop stood at the end of a narrow street where fog liked to linger, a stench of wet earth swirling in the mist. Inside, hundreds of clocks whispered their many variations of ticks and whistles. Eddie, the clockmaker, moved slowly, knowing that the craft he practiced required patience, reflecting exactly what his creations were made for. Eddy was known for being able to fix any clock, straightening bent hands and repainting faded numbers. His clocks were the finest, pale white faces appearing in mahogany or oak, golden details seeming to be almost embroidered onto the polished wood.

One evening, a man arrived just as dusk turned into night. His cloak brought a reek of the city into the crowded shop. He asked for a clock that could “stop all time,” his voice steady and sure. Eddie hesitated to carry out the stranger’s request. In the many years he had worked on the inventions that tracked time, he had never though of one that could stop it. It seemed and impossible task, yet against his better judgment, he agreed. For three nights he worked without resting, assembling gears that whirred soft melodies, setting a face that reflected no numbers, only a single unmoving hand. When he finally presented it, the man smiled faintly, receiving it in both hands and tucking it into his heavy cloak.

Many weeks passed, and with it, gradually, the clocks in Eddie’s shop began to slow. Some faltered, others stopping, their whirring melodies declining into silence. Alarmed, Eddie searched for the cause, but found none- until he noticed his own reflection in the glass of the faces of unfinished clocks. They were unchanging, not a speck of dust touching their surfaces. He ran to the street, to the earthy fog, and there, in a shop window across the way, he saw the man in the cloak again. He stood perfectly still, his hand resting on the clock he had made. And in its polished surface, Eddie finally saw, time had not been captured for the man, but taken from him.