Chapter Six

The doorbell jingled again.

Tom didn’t look up.

He was still at the counter, one hand resting on the boy’s broken travel clock, the other on Claire’s card. He hadn’t moved much since they left.

Then came the sound of a boot dragging, a metallic rattle, and the slow hiss of someone who had no interest in walking quietly.

“I knocked,” a voice said, already halfway into the shop. “Didn’t get an answer, so I figured you were either dead or ignoring me.”

Tom looked up.

Sunglasses. Indoors. Long white beard. A black hunting shirt with a faded cartoon target and the words I aim to misbehave. Behind him, parked half on the curb, was an ATV with a milk crate strapped to the back—filled with tangled brass gears and two clock faces, one cracked down the middle.

Tom raised an eyebrow. “Gary?”

Gary blinked behind his sunglasses. “Well I'll be damned. You remember me?”

“Some things are hard to forget.” Tom gave a faint smile. “You still park like you own the sidewalk.”

Gary chuckled. “Yeah, well. You look like your old man. Just with more hair and less steam coming out your ears.”

Tom stood as Gary made his way in. “And you—you're just as I remember. A little more gray. And somehow you found room to grow.”

“Hey now,” Gary said, patting his belly. “That ain’t growth. That’s wisdom storage.”

“Is that what we’re calling it?”

“Beats callin' it what the doctor did,” Gary muttered. “Besides, I move just fine. ATV does the hard part.”

He shuffled further inside, squinting behind his lenses as he scanned the room.

“Damn. Still smells like Ellis in here. Leather, oil, and existential disappointment.”

Tom smirked. “You’d know.”

“Course I would. Knew your dad forty years. Bought my first clock from him in ‘89. Paid in cash and got a lecture about winding direction.” He wandered to the shelves like he’d done it a hundred times before. “Didn’t know he’d gone and died until someone told me you were back.”

“Small town. Word travels.”

Gary tapped a pendulum with the back of his knuckle, listening to it tick.

“Doesn’t always land where it should.” He turned back to Tom. “So. What’s the plan?”

“Plan?”

“Yeah. You takin’ over or just sightseeing?”

“Haven’t decided.”

“That a real answer, or the kind that buys you time?”

Tom gave a half-shrug. “I’m still checking for tripwires.”

Gary chuckled. “Fair. The old man was a landmine in a cardigan.”

He wandered toward the workbench, eyeing the tools, then the travel clock.

“You fixin’ that?”

“Trying.”

“Battery or guts?”

“Both, probably.”

Gary grinned. “You sound like him.”

“I’m not him.”

“Nobody is. Ellis was one of a kind. Pain in the ass. Precision-obsessed wizard. Wouldn’t let me bring him anything with plastic on it.”

Tom gave a tight smile. “He wasn’t wrong.”

Gary’s sunglasses caught a flash of afternoon light as he finally dropped the act.

“Well. While I’m here—and since you’re here—we oughta talk lease.”

Tom leaned back a little.

“That fast?”

“Not fast. Timely. Your dad renewed it last five-year block six years ago, which means... I’m guessin' math wasn’t his strong suit toward the end.”

“You’re saying it’s up.”

“Month from now, give or take. I got the paperwork ready, if you’re stayin’. If you’re not—well, I gotta make plans.”

Tom eyed him. “Plans like what?”

“Not sayin’. Just that it’d be a shame to see all these clocks go to waste. Some of these pieces are, frankly, underappreciated.”

Tom raised an eyebrow. “You offering to take them off my hands?”

Gary held up both palms. “Wouldn’t dream of it. Unless, you know, someone needed help. I got space.”

“A garage full?”

“Garage, shed, trailer, one of those prefab buildings with the fake wood panelin'. Had it dropped on my land like a storage pod. Wired it. Hung track lighting. Thing's almost respectable now.”

Tom just stared.

Gary shrugged. “I’m gettin' real close to openin' it up proper. Whole walk-through setup. Sign's already made. 'Gary's Timepiece Museum & Emporium.' Might even get the county to call it historic. Got a fella workin' on the paperwork.”

Tom blinked. “You serious?”

“Hell yes, I’m serious. Folks pull off the highway for pie and a photo of a two-headed calf. Don’t see why they wouldn’t for a room full of tickin' history.”

“Is that what this is? A rescue mission for lonely clocks?”

“That... and I could use a workin' triple chime.”

They stood in silence for a second, just the hum of old ticking around them.

“You want the lease papers?” Gary asked.

“Not today.”

“Soon, though.”

“I know.”

Gary nodded once, then again like he was winding himself down. He turned toward the door.

“Alright. I’ll let you get back to whatever this is. Mourning, wandering, nesting. Just don’t let the place get dusty. Dust ruins the gears.”

Tom looked around at the already dusty shelves. “Bit late for that.”

Gary paused with a grin.

“Just means the ghosts still live here.”

And with that, he disappeared back through the door. The bell jingled. The ATV coughed twice, sputtered, then roared to life and peeled away like it had a train to catch.

Tom stood there a minute longer.

The lease.

The clocks.

And Gary—somewhere out there cataloging every spare gear like they were gold coins.

From the back room came a soft digital chime.

He walked slowly into the back, where he’d left his backpack on the cot. The screen was already awake, a notification bubble floating in the corner.

All good on your end? We’ve got three open tickets—VPN not working, someone lost their email folders, and Amanda says her whole laptop is ‘possessed.’ When are you back online?

He stared at the message. No subject line. No "Hope you're doing okay." Just the usual tech-triage urgency dressed in lowercase stress.

He sat, opened the lid wider. His work dashboard was still loaded, the company logo sitting smug in the corner like it had never left him.

Just checking in.

He read it again, then closed the lid.

It made a soft click.

Louder than it should’ve felt.

He leaned back on the cot and stared at the ceiling.

Gary wanted the clocks.

Work wanted him back.

And Ellis—somehow—wanted him to stay long enough to understand.

Tom picked up Claire’s card off the nightstand.

Tutoring. All Ages.

Caleb’s name was written on the back in neat block letters.

He thought about the boy with the broken travel clock.

Then about the shelf full of clocks that no one had come for.

He walked back into the shop.

The clocks ticked. Some louder than others. One was chiming the wrong hour altogether.

He scanned the shelves, then reached for a wooden mantel clock.

Mid-century, cracked veneer, dusty glass face. A strip of masking tape still clung to the back, half peeled.

In block letters: DO NOT REPAIR

Ellis’s handwriting.

Tom turned it over in his hands.

He remembered this one.

Not just the clock—but the moment.

Years ago, standing on a stool, elbows barely clearing the workbench, watching his father crack it open, poke around, then shake his head.

You fix the ones worth fixing, Ellis had said. Leave the rest be.

Tom hadn’t understood it then. Maybe he still didn’t.

He brought the clock to the bench and opened it slowly, as if gentler hands might change the truth inside.

It was worse than it looked—rusted teeth, a warped spring, the kind of damage that spreads quietly over time. Like rot. Like silence.

Still, he tried.

Tweezers. Magnifier. Light.

His father’s tools.

His father’s workbench.

His father’s silence.

He bent the gear back into place with more care than pressure. He didn’t rush. Didn’t curse.

Just worked.

Like it might matter.

Like it might mean something.

And for a second—just a flicker—it did.

He wanted this one to tick again.

Because maybe if he could fix this, then his father hadn’t really been too far gone.

Maybe if he could make it right, then all the space they never closed didn’t have to feel so permanent.

But the gear cracked in his hand.

Just a hairline split.

But enough.

He sat back, the shop suddenly too quiet again.

And for a long moment, Tom didn’t move.

He didn’t cry.

Didn’t curse.

Didn’t even exhale.

Just sat there, staring at the pieces.

When the call had come, he’d been two thousand miles away. Standing in his kitchen, halfway through slicing bell peppers for a stir-fry he wasn’t really in the mood for. The knife slipped when the phone rang. He didn’t cut himself, but he dropped the blade, and it clattered against the tile louder than the news on the other end of the line. His father was gone. Just like that. No buildup. No warning.

It hadn’t felt real.

But this did.

The tools. The dust. The silence that pressed in from every wall.

This was the room his father had died without him in.

And now he was here.

Too late to fix it.