Chapter Four

The clocks hadn’t stopped when he woke up, but they felt louder.

Tom stood at the kitchen sink with cold water on his face and no intention of drinking tea again. The kettle sat on the counter, bone-dry, like it had already given up on him.

He needed coffee.

Outside, the morning was colder than it looked—sunlight through pine trees, but the kind that bit your skin. He pulled on a jacket from the peg by the door. Still smelled faintly like his father.

Main Street hadn’t changed much. A couple new signs. A few buildings repainted in colors that tried too hard to be charming. The bakery was still there—he passed it without slowing. He wasn’t in the mood for cinnamon or small talk.

The coffee shop sat at the end of the block. New name. New awning. Same building. He stepped inside and was hit with the smell of fresh brew and floor polish. A bell jingled above the door.

“Morning,” the barista said, not looking up.

Tom stepped to the counter. “Large coffee. Just black.”

“Sure thing.”

The man behind him said, “Didn’t expect to see a Reed back in here.”

Tom didn’t turn around right away. Just paid, nodded once, and stepped aside.

When he did glance back, the man was older. Sixties, maybe. Heavy jacket. Familiar eyes, but not a familiar name. If he had one.

“Thought you moved out west or something,” the man said. “You’re—what—Walter’s boy, right?”

“Tom,” he said. “Yeah.”

“Tom,” the man repeated, like he was testing how it felt. “Took me a second. Wasn’t sure at first. But yeah—same jaw. Same way you stand, too. Like you’re ready to leave before you’ve even said hello. That don’t-talk-to-me posture runs in the family.”

Tom didn’t argue. The barista handed him his coffee, and he held it like a shield.

The man gestured vaguely toward the street. “Shop open again?”

“Not officially.”

“Shame. Your dad fixed my watch three times over. Said it wasn’t worth the effort. Did it anyway.”

Tom gave a small nod. “Sounds like him.”

“Used to see you around when you were a kid. You were quieter then.”

“Not much has changed.”

That got a short laugh. The man sipped his coffee and leaned against the doorframe like they had time.

“You staying long?”

“Just going through things.”

“Well,” he said, “don’t go through them too quick. Some of ‘em meant something to people.”

Tom’s grip tightened on the cup.

Outside, he stood by the bench just past the window. The coffee was hot, strong, and exactly what he needed. He took a sip and let it sit on his tongue. Bitterness, no aftertaste. Just clean.

“You’re Walter’s son.”

He looked over. A woman in her late fifties had stopped on the sidewalk. She wore a soft cardigan and sneakers that looked like they walked three miles before breakfast.

Tom had barely been outside ten minutes.

He sipped his coffee, hoping she might keep walking.

No luck.

This was the part he forgot about small towns. Everyone knew you. Or thought they did. And somehow, that made being alone even harder.

“I am,” he said.

“I knew your mother better,” she said. “But I saw your father most.”

Tom didn’t respond. He took another sip instead.

“You’ve got her eyes,” she said, smiling faintly. “But your expression... that’s all your father. Like you’re already halfway out the door.”

He looked at her now. Really looked.

“You worked with him?” he asked.

“No. Just visited the shop. Brought in a music box once that belonged to my grandmother. He said he couldn’t fix it. Then three weeks later, he showed up at my door with it working.”

“Why?”

She shrugged. “Guess he changed his mind.”

There was a pause.

“I’m June,” she said.

That caught him off guard.

“As in…”

She nodded. “The clock. For Eddie. He’s my grandson.”

Tom blinked. “You already picked it up.”

“No,” she said gently. “You never gave it to me.”

Right.

He swallowed.

“It’s ready,” he said. “Mostly. There’s a note.”

June looked at him, not unkind, just quiet.

“There usually is.”

She didn’t press. Didn’t ask to see it. Just stood there, watching him like she wasn’t in a hurry to be anywhere else.

Tom shifted his weight, glanced back toward the shop.

“You want to come by later?”

“I could,” she said. “If you’re up for company.”

“I’m not,” he said honestly. “But it seems unavoidable.”

That made her smile. “I’ll stop by tomorrow. Let you have your coffee in peace.”

She turned and walked away without another word.

Tom stood there a minute longer, staring at the space June had just occupied.

Then he tossed his cup and walked back toward the shop—less because he wanted to, more because he didn’t know what else to do.

Inside, the silence felt heavier.

He hung his jacket by the door and stood by the workbench, looking at the clock he hadn’t handed over. Still ticking. Still not his.

He sat.

Opened the drawer.

The repair log was still there. He flipped past the pages he’d seen before. More names. More sketches. Then something strange—a torn edge. A missing page.

He felt along the inside of the drawer. Nothing. Pulled it all the way out.

Nothing.

Then he noticed the underside—where a small square of paper was taped to the wood, barely visible.

He peeled it off, slowly. Yellowed. Faint handwriting in pencil. Not the thick block letters this time. Softer. Almost... careful.

If he’s reading this, tell him it was never about the clocks.

Tom stared at it.

There was no signature. No date.

Just that one line.

He looked at the log again. At the empty space where the page had been torn.

If he’s reading this...

The clock ticked beside him, steady and quiet.

Outside, the wind kicked up, and the branch tapped the window twice—like someone knocking to be let in.

The paper felt thin between his fingers. Fragile.

Tom stared at the words again.

If he’s reading this, tell him it was never about the clocks.

Who was “he”? Himself? Someone else? Was this even meant for him?

He flipped the logbook shut and stood, the legs of the chair scraping softly against the floor. His father had never been the type to leave messages. He barely left receipts.

But this… this was something.

He walked to the back of the shop, where the floorboards creaked under the weight of old habits. A filing cabinet stood in the corner—tall, rusted, a little crooked on one side. The bottom drawer hadn’t opened when he first arrived. He hadn’t tried that hard.

He tried now.

It stuck. He tugged harder. Nothing. Then he remembered the key ring he’d tossed into the catch-all drawer by the register.

He went back, found it, returned.

The third key fit.

The drawer slid open with a groan.

Inside: a folded cloth. A small stack of letters. A photograph—creased and curling at the edges.

Tom reached for the letters. Most were addressed to names he didn’t recognize. But one had his own name on it.

Just “Tom.” No last name. No date. No return address.

He hesitated.

Then opened it.

Tom,

If you’re reading this, I’m gone. And I didn’t say what I should’ve when I had the chance. Not because I didn’t want to—but because I didn’t know how.

You always wanted things straight. I’ve never been good at that.

This shop… it was the only thing I ever finished. And even that didn’t say what I needed it to.

But you’re here now. Which means something.

There’s more in here than you think. Some of it’s yours. Some isn’t.

Stay as long as you can.

—Dad

Tom read it twice.

Then sat down, slowly, on the edge of the nearest stool.

His hand shook slightly. He looked at the photo.

It was his father—standing outside the shop, younger. Smiling, barely. A woman beside him.

Not Tom’s mother.

Someone else.

He flipped it over.

One word was written on the back in pencil.

“Claire.”

The bell over the front door chimed.

Tom froze.

Someone had stepped inside.