Chapter Eight

The afternoon light slanted in through the tall windows of Ellis Timepieces, warming the dust that hung lazily in the air. Tom sat at the workbench, a small mantle clock in pieces before him—gears, screws, and springs all laid out like a surgeon’s tray. He wasn’t really working. Just rearranging.

The ticking of the shop had faded into something familiar. Background. Like the creak of old floors or the wind through the walls. It felt too normal.

Then the chime above the door rang.

He glanced up.

Claire stood just inside the glass door holding something in both hands. Her cheeks were flushed, hair wind-tousled and imperfect in a way she didn’t try to fix. She gave a little wave.

“Again?” he asked, standing.

“I hope this isn’t weird,” she said, half-smiling. “I had an hour to kill.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Not soccer practice today?”

She laughed. “No. Nature art club.”

“That’s a real thing?”

“It is when you’re eight and the alternative is doing math at the kitchen table.”

Tom gestured to the bench. “Caleb’s got the better deal. I’m over here fixing a 1940s Westminster chime for fun.”

Claire smirked. “And here I thought glitter and pinecones were peak weird.”

Then she held up the plastic grocery bag, smiling. “I brought pie. Bribery, really. Thought you might let me hang around a bit.”

Tom peeked inside. “Cherry. Bold choice.”

“I was in a mood.”

He gave her a look. “What kind of mood leads to pie?”

“The kind where you realize you’ve been thinking about this place all day and need an excuse to come by.”

She said it like a joke, but her voice dipped near the end. He didn’t press.

“Pie is an acceptable excuse,” he said. “Better than pretending you forgot your coat.”

Claire smirked. “I don’t wear coats. I learned fast. You show up in one around here, people ask if you’re lost.”

He gestured again and she sat. Then, more gently, she set something down on the table between them.

A music box. Pale blue enamel, faded to something almost gray in the light. It looked delicate even when it was closed.

“I almost didn’t bring it,” she said. “It feels like the last little thing that still belongs to her. Letting someone else open it… I don’t know. Feels like saying goodbye.”

Tom picked it up. Heavier than expected.

“Sentimental?”

“Yeah. It was my Aunt Marlene’s. She gave it to me when I was little. Said it only worked when I was feeling brave. I believed that for years.”

Tom turned the box in his hands. “That’s a lot of pressure for a music box.”

Claire smiled. “She liked giving things meaning. Even when they didn’t need it.”

Tom glanced toward the wall of clocks. “She would've gotten along great with my dad.”

She laughed, and he turned the box over in his hands, finding the winding key.

He gave it a gentle twist. The music stuttered to life—Clair de Lune, off-tempo and faded. A few notes in, it wheezed and stopped.

Tom tilted his head. “That’s a beautiful tune,” he said. “Saw it played live once, years ago. Gave me chills.”

Claire smiled faintly. “That’s where my name comes from. My mom played it all the time when I was little. Thought it was elegant.”

Tom looked at her, surprised. “Seriously?”

She nodded. “Middle name, technically. But I’ve always gone by it.”

He was quiet a beat longer than usual. “Fits.”

Claire glanced away, just for a second—cheeks tinged pink.

Tom frowned and tilted the box. Something shifted inside. Not a spring. Not a gear.

He turned it over, felt along the base. Found a seam. Pressed.

Click.

A hidden panel slid open. Inside: a key. Old brass. Worn smooth.

Claire leaned in. “That wasn’t there when I was a kid.”

Tom held it up, squinting at the side. “CT – 4.”

Claire leaned in. “CT…” She repeated it softly. “CT… CT… Room 4. Community Theater. At the school.”

She looked up at him. “Ellis helped fix a clock there once.”

He looked at her. “Why would he have a key to that?”

“He used to come by sometimes,” she said. “Not for events or anything. Just… little drop-ins. Fixed the stage clock once. Left a box of chalk once with a note: ‘Time makes dust of everything.’ Creeped out the janitor.”

Tom chuckled. “That sounds like him.”

“He was odd,” Claire said. “But sweet. In his own hard-shelled way.”

Tom turned the key again. “This feels like… something. A trailhead.”

Claire nodded. “He paid attention. More than people realized.”

He frowned. “Or maybe he just liked hiding things.”

“Maybe. Or maybe this was his way of leaving a trail. For someone to follow.”

He shook his head. “What if it’s just a key? Just another one of his cryptic little puzzles?”

“Then we’ll know. But what if it’s not?”

Claire didn’t respond right away. Then, gently: “Maybe that’s the point.”

He looked at her. “You really think there’s something in Room 4?”

“I think there was more to him than you ever got to see. And I think he wanted you to see it now.”

Tom exhaled. “Isn’t breaking into a school still a felony?”

Claire shrugged, casual. “Only if we get caught.”

Tom gave her a look. He hesitated, turning the key over in his hand. “What about Caleb? Don’t you have to get him soon?”

“Caleb’s at the club for a while. Supervised by Ms. Loring, who’s basically the patron saint of glitter and second chances. I’ve got time.”

Tom paused, turning the key over in his fingers.

She added, “We’re good. He’s got snacks, supervision, and more glue sticks than anyone should legally be allowed to wield.”

Tom shook his head, but he was smiling now. A real smile—the kind that didn’t visit often.

He looked down at the key again.

“If it turns out to be nothing,” Claire said quietly, “I’ll bake you a real cherry pie. The good kind. With a lattice top and everything.”

Tom still didn’t look up. “Better come with ice cream.”

Claire smirked. “Vanilla. Two scoops.”

Then he looked down at the key again. And without another word, he grabbed his jacket off the hook and opened the door.

Claire followed.

Behind them, the music box wound down, and the clocks kept ticking.