Rain tapped against the workshop's windows, turning the street outside into a blurry watercolor. Ella had propped open the door a crack to let in the cool, damp air—she loved the way rain made old wood and metal smell, like secrets waking up. She was sorting through a box of spare gears when Sebastian appeared with a stack of towels.
"Ethan tracked mud in again," he said, shaking his head but smiling. "Said he 'had to rescue a stray cat' on the way. The cat's now curled up on the register. Mrs. Higgins is already calling it 'her new grandkitty.'"
Ella laughed, glancing over to see a tabby—the tabby from the alley—perched on the register, eyeing the cuckoo clock like it might be a snack. "Good thing she's cute. Gears are too small for cats, anyway."
The bell jangled, and a man stepped in, shaking rain from his coat. He was middle-aged, with a face lined like a well-read book, and he carried a small, dented music box—its wooden case carved with stars, its lid slightly warped.
"Sorry to intrude on a wet day," he said, wiping his boots on the mat. "Heard you fix… things with stories. Not just clocks."
Ella motioned him to a stool. "That's the idea. What've you got?"
He set the music box on the counter. "It was my sister's. Lila. She died last year—cancer, quick. This was her favorite thing. She carried it everywhere as a kid. But it stopped playing a few months before she… well. Stopped." He ran a finger over the stars. "I found it in her attic. Thought… maybe it's silly, but I wanted to hear it again. For her."
Ella opened the box. Inside, a tiny metal cylinder—like a clock's heart—sat beneath a glass dome. She touched it gently; it was rusted, stuck in place. "The cylinder's seized. Probably from sitting too long. Let me take a look."
She carried it to her workbench, Sebastian hovering nearby with a cup of hot cocoa. "For the road," he said, handing it to the man. "Name's Sebastian, by the way. This is Ella."
"Milo," the man said, sipping. "Lila and I grew up here, you know. On Oak Street. This shop used to be a bookstore. We'd sneak in after school, steal cookies from Mrs. Gable, the owner. She'd pretend to scold us, but she'd slip us extra." He smiled, sad. "Lila loved that bookstore. Said it felt like 'a hug with walls.'"
Ella's heart tugged. She'd heard stories about the bookstore—her dad had mentioned it, once, when he was reminiscing about "the old days." "We kept the shelves," she said, nodding to the wall lined with books (mostly about clocks, now, but a few novels, too). "Figured some things are worth holding onto."
Milo nodded. "She would've liked that. Lila was… she was the dreamer. I was the one who 'kept her grounded,' as she put it. But really? She kept me from being boring. She'd say, 'Milo, stop counting the minutes. Let's make them sing.'"
Ella carefully removed the cylinder, brushing away rust with a soft cloth. "What song does it play?"
"'Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star.'" Milo's voice softened. "Our mom sang it to us. When Lila got sick, I'd hum it to her. She'd say, 'You're off-key, dummy,' but she'd squeeze my hand. Like she was holding on."
Ella worked slowly, oiling the cylinder's gears, gently prying the rusted parts loose. Sebastian stood beside her, silent, watching—he'd learned when to let her focus, when to just be there. After a while, she set the cylinder back, closed the box, and wound the key.
It sputtered at first—a creak, a faint warble—then cleared. "Twinkle, Twinkle, Little Star" floated out, soft but steady, like a whisper from the past.
Milo's breath hitched. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, there were tears in them. "That's it. That's exactly how it sounded. When we were kids. When she… when she was still here."
Ella smiled. "It just needed a little patience. Gears get lonely, too, if they're left unused."
He laughed, wiping his cheek. "She'd say that. 'Even things need love, Milo.'" He pulled out his wallet, but Ella shook her head.
"On the house," she said. "For Lila. For keeping you from being boring."
Milo hesitated, then nodded, tucking the music box into his coat. "Thank you. For… for letting me hear her again."
He left, and Ella watched him go—he paused under the shop's awning, opening the music box once more, listening as the rain and the song tangled together.
Sebastian wrapped a blanket around her shoulders. "Cold?"
"A little," she said, leaning into him. "But good cold. The kind that makes you feel alive."
Ethan burst in then, soaking wet, the tabby cat draped over his shoulder like a fur stole. "Found her a home! Mrs. Higgins says she's moving in—'to keep the cuckoo in line.' Oh, and Mr. Grady from the hardware store dropped off a clock—said it 'stopped when his grandson left for college.' Needs a 'welcome home' chime, he said."
Ella grinned, already reaching for her tools. "Tell him we'll make it sing."
The rain kept falling, but inside, the workshop was warm: the tabby purred on the register, the grandfather clock chimed softly, and in the corner, Lila's music box—now sitting on a shelf, next to the ledger—played its song, quiet and bright, like a promise.
Some stories, Ella thought, didn't need fixing. They just needed to be heard.
And time? It was more than enough to let them echo.