The wind swayed through the narrow streets of Eldridge Hollow, rustling leaves and carrying the scent of sea salt. The signboard above my bookshop—Petal Holmes—groaned on its rusted hinges. Inside, the familiar aroma of ink and old leather wrapped around me, a comfort I've clung to since dad's passing six years ago.
My childhood has been filled with tales of far-off lands, but at twenty-four, I am woven into the stillness of this town—my adventures confined to the pages of the novels I sell.
The morning settles in silence. Gulls cry faintly as the waves batter the cliffs below. As I move to adjust the shelves and the shop's rickety sign, my fingers brush against something.
A letter.
It's been slipped beneath the door.
The parchment is thick, the envelope unmarked—except for my name: Jane Heather, etched in elegant, curling script like keys turned in an old lock. Inside, a single line:
Come to Burner's Timeworks.
The clock shop on the outskirts of town.
I've passed it countless times. Gaslight spills through its stained-glass windows, casting a nostalgic glow across its wooden façade. But I've never thought of stepping inside.
Nate Burner, its owner, is a mystery wrapped in solitude. People speak of him in hushed tones—fragments of stories, more rumor than truth.
So what reason could he possibly have for summoning me?
Inquisitiveness—my oldest companion—tears at something quiet and buried in me.
I lock the shop, my boots clicking against the pebbled road as I wind through the fog-laced streets. The wind tangles my scarf as I reach the edge of town.
Burner's Timeworks awaits.
Its crooked sign creaks in the breeze. The brass bells above the door jangle as I step inside.
A chorus of ticking greets me—delicate and all-consuming. Clocks line the walls, shelves, and floors. Pocket watches, cuckoos, and solemn grandfather clocks with long, swinging pendulums that beat like quiet hearts.
Pocket watches gleam beneath glass domes.
Cuckoo clocks murmur their soft songs from within tiny wooden frames.
A golden glow radiates through the shop—steady and warm—like the pulse of the place itself.
Then a voice.
"Miss Heather," someone says.
I turn.
A man steps out from behind the counter, cluttered with gears and tools. He's nothing like I imagined. Tall. Handsome. His dark hair falls over piercing green eyes. Oil stains mark his rolled-up sleeves and strong forearms.
"You're punctual," he says, his voice low, slightly amused.
My shawl slips down my arm as I clutch the letter closer.
What could he possibly want from me? I've never had any interest in clocks.
He watches me for a moment. His lips twitch into a half-smile that doesn't quite reach his eyes.
"You've always sought stories, haven't you?" he says. "That little bookshop of yours proves it."
I blink.
"What I have," he continues, "is no ordinary thing. But it asks something… brave of its listener."
My heart pounds.
The shop feels alive—its clocks watching me.
Listening.
Nate steps aside and gestures toward a row of pocket watches.
Each one is engraved with strange, intricate symbols I don't recognize.
"Choose one," he says. His voice is soft, but carries the gravity of a command.
I hesitate.
Then something pulls me—a silver watch with a shimmering face.
The moment my fingers brush it, a sudden jolt—bright and electric—races through me.
The air shimmers.
The room exhales.
The ticking stumbles—then stretches, like time itself is holding its breath.
I freeze.
Breath caught in my throat.
"What is this place?" I whisper.
Nate's gaze meets mine—intense, knowing.
"A keeper of secrets," he says quietly. "And you, Jane, may be part of one."
I step back, the silver watch heavy in my palm.
"What do you mean?"
He takes a step closer, collapsing the polite distance between us.
"There's more to this town than meets the eye," he says. "My family's story is woven into time. This"—he gestures to the watch—"is a gift. But gifts like this are never without cost."
I don't know what to say.
My cheeks warm at his words, caught between fear and fascination.
"You don't know anything about me."
"Don't I?" he asks gently. "You dream of faraway places. Of moreme.Vale than this town could ever offer. You've always had the courage to wonder—and to choose. That's why you're standing here now."
My fingers tighten around the watch. Its hands tick erratically, defying any rhythm I know.
"What does it do?" I ask.
"It's a key," Nate says, voice barely above a whisper. "To something greater. Keep it safe. Come back tomorrow—and I'll explain everything."
I want to press him for more, but his eyes—and the shop's eerie hum—silence me.
As I step outside, the fog folds over the street like a closing hand.
The silver watch pulses faintly in my palm.
My arms feel warm. Alive.
Something is shifting in the clocks of Eldridge Hollow.
And somehow, I am at the center of it.