Late summer sun slanted lazily through the workshop, turning dust motes into flecks of gold. The sunflowers out back had grown taller than the roof, their heavy heads nodding as if eavesdropping. Ella was kneeling, giving the navigation clock a routine check—Gus had dropped it off the week before, saying, "Old friends need to visit now and then"—when the bell jangled.
In stepped a young man in glasses, around thirty, carrying a large object wrapped in an old blanket, his steps tentative. He set it on the counter and pulled back the blanket: an antique floor clock, its rosewood case polished to a shine, though there was a noticeable dent on one corner, a crack in the face glass, and the hands frozen at 3:45.
"Hello," he said, pushing his glasses up, his voice tight. "I'm Zhou Mingyu. My grandmother… passed last week. This clock was her treasure. It's been with her since she married, nearly sixty years. But it… stopped three months ago. The day I argued with her."
Ella motioned him to a seat, then circled the clock, running a finger over the dent. "This mark looks like it's been there a while?"
Mingyu nodded, his fingers brushing the clock's base unconsciously. "I did it as a kid. Seven years old, I climbed up to reach the candy jar and knocked the clock sideways. Grandma didn't scold me. She just squatted down and said, 'Clocks are like people—they hurt when they're bumped and bruised, but they can be mended.' But that day… I snapped at her, said clinging to these old things was pointless, that she went on too much about my grandpa—he died young, and she'd always say, 'This clock's ticking sounds just like your grandpa's footsteps.' I yelled, 'He's gone—what's the point of holding onto a sound?'… And the next day, the clock stopped."
Sebastian set down two glasses of iced mint tea, placing them gently on the table. "My grandma used to say old things are alive—they remember what people forget."
Mingyu took the tea, his fingers trembling slightly. "I tried to apologize later, but she got sick fast. No chance. Yesterday, sorting through her things, I found this inside the clock." He pulled out a brown paper envelope, its seal frayed.
Ella opened it to find a yellowed photo: a young grandma standing by the clock, pigtails swinging, smiling so wide her eyes crinkled, beside a man in a Zhongshan suit, raising a hand to wind the clock, his profile soft. On the back, in pencil: "Mid-Autumn 1968. Wei winding the clock, saying it'll stay with me till my hair turns white."
"That's my grandpa," Mingyu's voice softened. "Grandma always said he was handy—he fixed the clock when the spring loosened, when gears jammed. After he died, she taught herself, squinting at manuals with her reading glasses. She'd say, 'If this clock stops, it'll be like losing him all over again.'"
Ella knelt to open the clock's back panel. Gears were dusted with grime, but clearly well-tended—one small gear had a bent edge, as if someone had forced the winding key in haste. "The spring's stuck," she said quietly. "But it's fixable. This clock's tough—like your grandma."
As she reached for her toolbox, Mingyu said, "When I was little, I'd hide behind the clock to listen to her 'talk' to grandpa. She'd say, 'Mingyu got top marks today—stubborn like you,' or 'The clock's two minutes fast again—you'd tease me for that.' I thought she was silly then. Now I get it—she wasn't talking to thin air. She was talking to the memories she held close."
Sebastian knelt beside him, pointing to tiny marks on the clock's base. "Growth lines?"
Mingyu smiled, eyes glistening. "Yeah. Every birthday, she'd pull me over, mark my height with a pencil. See that faint one? That's when I could barely walk—she held me up to make it."
Ella carefully removed the bent gear, replacing it with a spare—an old stock piece from her grandfather, a perfect fit. She oiled the gears, adjusted the pendulum, moving as gently as if soothing an old friend. Sunlight slanted through the cracked glass, making the "3:45" glow bright.
"Ready?" she stood.
Mingyu took a breath, turning the winding key. The gears shifted with a soft click, like a bone settling into place. The hands trembled, then inched forward—3:46, 3:47… At 4:00, the clock chimed, low and steady, like an old man's cough.
Mingyu covered his face, shoulders shaking.
Ella handed him a tissue. "Your grandma heard that. I bet she's saying, 'Silly boy—should've yelled at you more that day so you'd remember to apologize sooner.'"
He laughed through tears. "She would've. She always said, 'Pain sticks better than joy.'" He pulled a small cloth pouch from his bag, opening it to reveal a jade pendant, carved with a plum blossom. "Grandpa gave this to her as an engagement gift. She wanted you to have it. 'The clock lady's got a gentle touch—deserves something that holds warmth.'"
Ella took it, the jade smooth and cool. "Tell her thank you."
Mingyu left with the clock, its tick-tock mixing with his footsteps, echoing down the lane as夕阳 (sunset) painted the street orange.
Sebastian wrapped an arm around Ella. "Mended another story."
She leaned into him, watching the sunflowers. "Not mended—just kept going. People leave, but the things they love? They stick around."
Ethan burst in with a watermelon. "Mingyu waved at me on the corner! Said he'll make grandma's braised pork for us next week—'Her recipe says extra bamboo shoots, crisp as a pendulum!'"
Ella's father sat in the doorway, smiling. "These clocks? They don't just fix gears. They polish the rust off hearts."
The clock's tick seemed to linger, mixing with watermelon sweetness and distant cicadas. Ella touched the plum blossom pendant; its cool surface still held the warmth of grandma's palm.
Late summer wind slipped through the open door, flipping the ledger's pages. Ella picked up her pen, writing on a new sheet:
"Antique floor clock, Zhou Mingyu & his grandma. Stopped at the moment of an argument, but held all the unspoken kindness. When fixed, it said 'I'm sorry' and 'I remember you.' Some words come late—but they always count."
The sunflowers nodded, as if in agreement. Time moved on, and so did the stories.