Winter crept in soft as a sigh. The workshop windows were strung with fairy lights, and a small pine tree—donated by Ethan's uncle, who ran a tree farm—stood in the corner, its branches weighted with tiny clock-shaped ornaments (Ella's handiwork, painted with gold leaf).
Ella was wrapping a string of lights around the register when the bell jangled, letting in a flurry of snowflakes. A young woman stepped in, her cheeks pink from the cold, a bundled-up baby in a carrier on her chest. Behind her followed a man, carrying a large, ornate wall clock—its wood carved with holly and mistletoe, its face marked with tiny snowflakes instead of numbers.
"Sorry to bother you so close to Christmas," the woman said, shifting the baby gently. "But… we heard you work miracles. Or at least, fix clocks that matter."
Ella smiled, gesturing to a chair. "Take a seat. Let's see what we're up against."
The man set the clock down carefully, as if it might break further. "It's my wife's grandmother's. She called it 'the Christmas clock.' It chimes every hour on Christmas Eve—ding-dong, slow and steady, like it's counting down to midnight. But… she passed away last year, and it stopped. Just… froze. At 11:59 p.m."
The woman—Lena, she said—brushed a hand over the clock's carved holly. "Grandma used to say it 'kept the magic' for us. When I was a kid, my cousins and I'd sit in front of it, waiting for the chimes, drinking hot cocoa that was more marshmallow than cocoa. She'd say, 'Magic's just love with a little sparkle.'" Her voice wavered. "This is our first Christmas with Mia—our baby. I… I want her to hear it. Even if it's just once."
The baby, Mia, gurgled, reaching for a snowflake ornament hanging from the tree.
Ella knelt to examine the clock, running her fingers over the gears through the back panel. "The mainspring's intact, but the escapement's stuck. Probably rusted from sitting. And look—" she pointed to a tiny lever "—this is the Christmas Eve setting. It's supposed to engage at sunset, make the chimes slower. Someone… maybe your grandma, before she got sick, tried to adjust it. It's jammed."
Sebastian appeared with mugs of hot cider, handing one to Lena and the man (Jake, he introduced himself). "Mia's first Christmas? That's a big one. We've got extra cookies in the back—Ethan's mom baked them. She calls them 'miracle cookies' because they somehow stay soft even when he steals half."
Lena laughed, accepting the cider. "Thank you. This place… it feels like Grandma's kitchen. Warm. Like everyone's family."
Ella nodded, already gathering her tools. "That's the best compliment we could get."
She worked through the afternoon, Jake and Lena sharing stories: how Grandma had taught Lena to knit (badly), how she'd saved every Christmas card in a shoebox labeled "Love Letters," how she'd held Mia for five minutes before she died—"Just long enough to say 'Welcome, little one.'"
Ella's father wandered over, cooing at Mia, who grabbed his finger and refused to let go. "She's a keeper, that one. Got a grip like a vice. Takes after her mom, I bet."
By late afternoon, the snow outside had picked up, turning the street white. Ella closed the clock's back panel, wiping her hands. "Ready?"
Lena and Jake leaned in, Mia babbling softly in her carrier. Ella wound the key. The clock ticked once, twice—then, at the hour mark, it chimed: ding-dong, slow and rich, just like Lena had described.
Tears filled Lena's eyes. "That's it. Exactly. It's like… she's here."
Jake squeezed her hand. "She is. In the chimes. In Mia. In us."
They left with the clock, promising to send a photo of it chimes on Christmas Eve. Ella watched them go, then turned to find Sebastian holding the ledger, a pen in hand.
"Your turn," he said.
Ella flipped to a new page. Outside, the snow fell silently, and the grandfather clock chimed, its melody mixing with the cuckoo clock's trill.
"Christmas wall clock, Lena & Jake. Stopped when a grandmother's love felt too far. Chimed again when a new life reminded them—love doesn't stop. It just finds new ways to ring."
She set down the pen, and Sebastian wrapped his arms around her, pressing a kiss to her forehead. "Snow's sticking. Think we'll close early? Get hot cocoa, watch it fall?"
Ella smiled, glancing at the shop—warm lights, the tree glowing, the ledger resting on the counter, a record of all the stories they'd mended.
"Sounds perfect," she said.
As they locked up, Ethan burst out of the bakery next door, holding a tray of cookies. "Got extras! Mrs. Higgins says the cat's 'demanding a midnight snack.' And your dad's at the house, making stew. Said 'no one works on the first snow day.'"
Ella laughed, taking a cookie. "Lead the way."
They walked down the street, snow crunching under their boots, the shop's lights winking behind them. Somewhere, a clock tower chimed six.
Ella thought of all the clocks they'd fixed—all the stories that kept going, long after the gears were mended. Time, she realized, wasn't just about seconds or seasons. It was about the people you walked through it with, the traditions you kept, the new ones you started.
And as the first snow of the year settled over the town, she knew—this was just the beginning.
There would always be more clocks to fix. More stories to tell.
More love to keep ringing.