Chapter Three

Tom stood by the door long after she left.

The bell had stopped ringing, but the sound of it seemed to hang in the shop, echoing between clocks. He looked at the note in his hand. The handwriting was unmistakable—thick, blocky letters that left no room for interpretation.

He looked over his shoulder. The clock was still there. For Eddie – June.

He could’ve handed it to her right then. Saved them both the trouble.

But he hadn’t.

He told himself it was because he hadn’t looked at it yet. Didn’t know if it worked. But that wasn’t it—not really. He just wasn’t ready to hand over anything that might mean something, not when he didn’t understand what it meant.

He folded the note and slipped it into his back pocket.

Instead of walking to the shelf, he turned and went to the back room.

The back room smelled the way he remembered it—like metal filings and tea leaves and old cloth. There was still a small counter by the window with a chipped mug sitting upside-down like it had been drained and forgotten mid-thought.

Tom opened the cabinet above it and found the kettle.

Aluminum. Dented along the bottom edge. The handle was loose, held in place by what looked like an old shoelace. He turned it over in his hands, shook it lightly. Something rattled.

He snorted.

“This thing could kill someone.”

Still, he filled it with water and set it on the burner.

He didn’t know why he was making tea.

Maybe because the kettle looked like it belonged here. And for now, so did he.

He found a packet of tea in the drawer—English Breakfast, worn label curling at the edges—and tossed it into the mug without ceremony.

He tightened the kettle’s screws while the burner clicked and caught. It hissed softly as it began to heat.

“Guess I’m having tea now,” he muttered.

Back in the front room, the clocks kept ticking. Or not ticking. Or ticking wrong.

He walked to the shelf, eyes settling on the one labeled For Eddie – June.

He picked it up this time.

The weight was familiar. A mantel clock. Wood frame, brass accents. Clean face. It wasn’t his father’s best work, but it had been cared for.

Mostly.

Tom set it on the workbench and pulled the magnifying lamp closer. The second hand was stuttering—not broken, but off rhythm. Like something was just a little out of place.

He flipped it over and opened the back.

A spring had come loose. Easy enough to fix.

But beneath it—tucked into the inner edge of the casing—was a small folded slip of paper.

He slid it out carefully.

It was his father’s handwriting again.

Don’t rush. Wait until June. It’s not for him yet.

Tom stared at it.

Not for him yet.

Not for Eddie? Or… not for someone else?

What the hell was this supposed to mean?

The kettle shrieked from the back room.

He poured the water and let the tea bag steep.

The smell was nostalgic in a weird way—like the ghost of Sunday afternoons he didn’t remember having.

He took a sip.

Immediately made a face.

“You drank this on purpose?” he asked the empty air.

No answer, of course. But the shop seemed to inhale around him, as if it had been waiting for the question.

He took another sip. Still bitter. Still not great.

But he didn’t pour it out.

Back at the bench, he stared at the clock.

The spring was back in place. It would tick just fine now. He could return it to the woman tomorrow.

If that’s what he decided.

He looked at the note again.

It’s not for him yet.

Tom opened the drawer beneath the bench. Inside was one of his father’s old repair logs—faint pencil marks, little sketches, names scribbled in margins.

He flipped to the last few pages.

Eddie – Mantel, June.
Too soon. Let it sit.

Below that:

Michael – Travel clock, finish later.
Elaine – Missing part, check drawer.
C. – Not ready. Let time pass.

There was no order to it. No dates. Just… thoughts. Instructions.

Almost like a journal written in code.

He closed the logbook and set it aside.

The shop had gone quiet again, except for the steady tick of the mantel clock—smooth now, no stutter.

Outside, wind moved through the trees, rustling leaves like old paper. A branch tapped once against the window, then stopped. Everything else held still.

He turned off the burner, rinsed the mug, and dried it with an old cloth from the counter. The kind of routine his father might’ve repeated a thousand times.

Upstairs, the air was cooler. The bedroom door stuck slightly when he pushed it open.

He hadn't planned to stay here. Had meant to book a hotel, but forgot. Or maybe he didn’t try all that hard.

One night wouldn’t hurt. Just until he got his bearings.

The room looked the same as it had years ago.

Bed made. Clock on the dresser. A drawer left half open like someone had meant to come back to it.

There was a photograph on the nightstand—face down.

Tom didn’t touch it.

He sat on the edge of the bed, hands clasped loosely between his knees.

He didn’t know what tomorrow would bring. Or what the rest of the clocks on the shelf had to say.

But for tonight, he was tired.

And he was still here.