Spring unfurled slowly, like a yawn. Buds swelled on the maple tree outside the workshop, and the air smelled of damp soil and something sweet—hyacinths, Ethan said, from his neighbor's garden. Ella had propped the door wide open, letting in the warmth, and a stray beam of sunlight slanted across her workbench, turning a pile of brass gears into little gold coins.
She was adjusting the pendulum of a mantel clock when the bell jangled. An older man stepped in, his boots caked with dirt, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. He paused, squinting at the shelves of clocks, then smiled—a crinkly, kind smile—and approached the counter.
"Miss White?" he asked, setting the bag down. "I'm Arthur. From the nursery on Oak Street. My wife—Maggie—used to talk about this place. Said you 'fix more than gears.'"
Ella nodded, gesturing to a chair. "That's the hope. What've you got in the bag?"
Arthur unzipped it, lifting out a clock. It was small, weathered, its wooden case carved with roses and ivy, its face smudged with what looked like… soil? The hands were frozen at 6:00 a.m.
"Garden clock," he said, brushing a finger over a carved rose. "Maggie found it at a flea market, years back. She painted the roses herself—her favorite, David Austins. Said it 'kept time with the garden.' Chimed every morning when the sun hit the hydrangeas. Woke me up, even on weekends." He chuckled, but his eyes were soft. "Stopped the day she died. Last spring. Just… quit. Right when the first roses bloomed."
Ella took the clock, turning it over. The back panel was loose, and she peeked inside—gears caked with dust, a tiny lever stuck. "Looks like dirt got in. Probably from the rain, after it stopped. Easy enough to clean. What's the chime sound like?"
Arthur's smile brightened. "Like wind chimes. Maggie loved wind chimes. Hung 'em all over the porch. Said they 'sang with the garden.'" He paused, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket. "She left this, too. Found it tucked under the clock's base, last week. Thought you might… I dunno. Get a kick out of it."
Ella unfolded it. It was a handwritten list, in loopy cursive: "To-do: plant sunflower seeds with Arthur (he swears he won't overwater), fix the clock's chime (it's sounding 'grumpy'), save a slice of rhubarb pie for Ethan's mom (she brought over jam)." The date at the top: April 12th, the year Maggie died.
"Grumpy chime," Ella said, smiling. "She noticed the little things, didn't she?"
Arthur nodded, wiping a thumb over the paper. "Said 'the little things are the big things, Art.' Used to laugh at me for writing down 'important' stuff—bills, appointments. 'You're missing the good parts,' she'd say. 'The way the clock chimes when the roses open. The way you hum off-key when you plant tomatoes.'"
Ella set to work, carefully brushing dirt from the gears with a soft brush. Sebastian appeared beside her, balancing a mug of iced tea (it was warm enough, finally) and a small potted plant—"Ethan's cousin's nursery had these," he said, setting it down. "Primroses. Maggie would've liked 'em, I think."
Arthur ran a finger over the primrose's yellow petals. "She would've. Said yellow was 'the happiest color.'"
They talked while Ella worked: about Maggie's garden ("roses, mostly, but she grew the best rhubarb this side of the river"), about their Sunday mornings ("we'd sit on the porch, drinking coffee, watching the clock chime"), about the empty spot in the garden where the clock used to stand ("feels like a missing tooth, y'know?").
Ella's father wandered in mid-morning, carrying a paper bag. "Mrs. Higgins sent over scones—said 'gardeners need fuel.'" He paused, eyeing the clock. "That's a beauty. Hand-carved? Looks like old work."
"Maggie's granddad made it," Arthur said. "Said he 'built it for the girl who loves flowers more than time.'"
Ella's father nodded. "Good man. Knew what matters."
By noon, the clock was clean, its gears oiled, the stuck lever freed. Ella wound it, and it ticked to life—a steady, sunlit rhythm—then chimed: a clear, trilling sound, like wind chimes dancing in a breeze.
Arthur's breath caught. He closed his eyes, and when he opened them, there were tears in them, but he was smiling. "That's it. That's exactly how she sounded. Like… like she's right here, telling me to stop moping and plant those sunflowers."
Ella handed him the clock. "She's in the chime, Art. In the primroses. In the dirt under your nails. You just gotta listen."
He laughed, tucking the clock under his arm. "You're a wise one, Miss White. Maggie would've liked you." He pulled out his wallet, but Ella shook her head.
"On the house," she said. "For the sunflowers. And for Maggie, who knew the little things are the big things."
Arthur hesitated, then pulled a packet of seeds from his pocket—sunflower seeds, labeled "Giant Russian". "For you. Plant 'em out back. They'll grow tall enough to wave at the shop. Maggie would've wanted that."
He left, and Ella watched him go—he paused on the sidewalk, winding the clock, grinning when it chimed.
Sebastian wrapped an arm around her shoulders. "Nice day for planting?"
Ella nodded, clutching the seed packet. "Absolutely. C'mon—let's find a spot."
They dug a small hole behind the shop, Ethan appearing out of nowhere with a trowel ("I knew you'd need help!") and Ella's father cheering them on ("Dig deeper! Sunflowers got roots, same as stories!").
As they covered the seeds with dirt, the garden clock chimed from Arthur's porch across the street, clear and bright.
Ella smiled, brushing dirt from her hands.
Some stories, she thought, didn't need words. They just needed sunlight, and a little patience—and someone to keep the chimes going.
The sun climbed higher, warming her back, and somewhere, a clock ticked.
Spring, like time, like love, was just getting started.