The Clockmaker’s Gift
At 65, Harold Finch had spent his life surrounded by the soft ticking of clocks. For forty years, he ran a little shop called Timeless Wonders on the corner of Maple and Main in his sleepy town. People came from far and wide to see him work. Harold wasn’t just a clockmaker; he was an artist. His hands, though weathered by time, moved with precision and care, as though he could feel the rhythm of the universe itself.
But one winter morning, Harold locked the shop’s door with a heavy sigh. Business had slowed to a crawl over the years, and his doctor had warned him about his failing eyesight. The world was changing; fewer people cared about hand-wound clocks or the intricate gears inside them. With his children grown and scattered across the country, and his wife passed away a decade ago, Harold felt like the hands of time were leaving him behind.
As Harold sat in his workshop that afternoon, surrounded by silent clocks, he heard the faint chime of the bell on the shop door. He frowned—he was sure he’d locked it. Turning toward the door, he saw a young boy, no older than ten, peeking inside.
“Sorry, mister,” the boy said, wide-eyed. “I didn’t mean to bother you, but… are you the clock guy?”
Harold chuckled softly. “I suppose I am. What can I do for you?”
The boy reached into his backpack and pulled out an old, tarnished pocket watch. “It’s my grandpa’s. It doesn’t work anymore, but he said it was special. Can you fix it?”
Harold hesitated. His tools were still out, his magnifying glasses perched on his nose. “Well, let’s have a look,” he said finally, motioning for the boy to come