The sign above the crooked wooden
door read simply, “F. Brindle & Sons”, though no one could recall
any sons, nor did anyone remember the last time the shop had a customer.
Francis Brindle, the elderly proprietor, spent his days hunched over his
workbench, his hands working with the precision of a much younger man. His
eyes, however, carried the weight of centuries.
Clara pushed open the door, and a tiny bell tinkled
overhead. The interior of the shop smelled of oil and dust; the light filtering
through the grimy windows seemed frozen in time. Everywhere she looked, there
were clocks. Grandfather clocks, pocket watches, wristwatches—all ticking away
in unison, each one keeping perfect time. At the centre of it all sat Francis
Brindle, his silver hair glowing slightly in the dim light, his hands deftly
adjusting the gears of a particularly intricate pocket watch.
Francis raised his head, his pale blue eyes fixing on hers.
There was something unsettling about his gaze, as if he could see within her. “It
has been waiting for you,” he said.
She glanced around, confused. “What has?”
The old man rose from his chair. He smiled faintly, reaching
beneath the counter and pulling out a small, ornately carved box. It was made
of dark wood, its surface etched with symbols that seemed to shift as the light
caught them. Slowly, he opened it, revealing a pocket watch unlike any Clara
had ever seen. Its face was a shimmering opal, and the hands moved not with a
ticking motion, but a smooth, fluid glide.
“This,” Francis said, holding the watch out to her, “was
made for you.”
Clara frowned. “But I’ve never been here before.”
“The watch,” he said softly, “is special. It was crafted
long ago.”
The moment her fingers touched the cool metal, a strange
sensation washed over her, as if all the clocks were ticking faster, the rhythm
of time accelerating around her.
“I don’t understand,” she exclaimed. “What is this?”
“You must make a choice. The watch will guide you to where
you are needed most. But be warned, every choice has its price.”
She glanced down at the watch, now in her hand, its opal
face shimmering with an otherworldly light. Deep within her, something
stirred—an ancient memory, a sense of purpose that had long been forgotten. She
looked up at the old man, her body steady despite the storm of emotions inside
her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
Without another word, Clara stepped out of the shop. She didn’t know where the watch would lead her, or what choices lay ahead, but time, once again, was in her hands.
No comments:
Post a Comment