The Clockmaker’s Daughter

In the heart of a forgotten city stood a shop that never closed, filled with clocks that ticked out of sync. Each one measured something different — joy, sorrow, regret, forgiveness. The clockmaker, an old man with trembling hands, built them for people who wished to turn time into something they could touch.

His daughter, Aurelia, was born among gears and gold dust. She had never seen the world outside, only heard it echo through the ticking. When her father fell ill, she took up his work — but her clocks were strange. They didn’t measure time. They stopped it.

The townspeople brought her their most precious moments: the first kiss, the final breath, the word never spoken. She captured them in her clocks, sealing them behind glass. But soon, she noticed something terrifying — each clock drained a little of her life. Her skin paled; her heartbeat slowed. Still, she couldn’t stop.

When her father died, she built one final masterpiece — a clock with no hands, powered only by her pulse. She placed it beside his bed, whispered, “We’ll keep time together.”

The next morning, the shop was silent. All the clocks had stopped. Only one ticked faintly — the one with no hands.

Sometimes, if you walk past that ruined street at midnight, you’ll hear a single heartbeat echoing through the air — waiting for time to begin again.