Alex dreamt again.
A long-haired woman stood before him, her raven hair falling in waves to her waist. Her face was shrouded in shadow, as if the dream itself refused to reveal her features. She sang in a voice soft as mist yet heavy with sorrow:
Through shadowed gates where daylight dies,I wait where time in silence lies,Until the fated one draws near…
When the final note trembled into stillness, she turned toward him. Though her face remained hidden, he knew—without doubt—that her eyes were locked with his. A single tear traced her cheek, and she gave him a sad, fleeting smile.
And then the dream ended, as it always did.
Alex woke before dawn, the air in his bedroom chilled with winter. The street outside was still quiet, London's morning fog pressed against the windows.
"The same dream every night," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I'm getting tired of it."
He leaned over and blew out the candle beside his bed, letting the faint grey light guide him. Pulling on his worn coat, he descended to his father's old workshop.
The house, though large for their means, bore the unmistakable signs of decline—frayed curtains, scuffed wood floors, and furniture polished more out of habit than necessity. Once, the Carters had been comfortably middle-class. But after his mother's passing and his father's mysterious disappearance, Alex had been forced to keep himself and his younger sister afloat.
Fortunately, his father had left him more than debts—he had left him a skill. Clock repair.
By eighteen, Alex had taken over the workshop entirely. His father's reputation in the city brought a steady stream of customers, though the work left little room for rest.
He lit the oil lamp above the workbench, the flame casting a warm halo over brass gears and springs, and set to work on a carriage clock due for delivery that afternoon. The quiet tick of mechanisms was almost meditative.
Hours passed until a shaft of pale sunlight broke through the fog outside. Alex set down his tools. "Time to make breakfast before Em wakes up."
He laid out a modest table—bread, butter, a dish of olives, and a pot of tea—before knocking at his sister's bedroom door.
"Wake up, princess, breakfast is ready."
There was a rustle of fabric within. Satisfied, he returned to the kitchen and unfolded the day's edition of The Times.
Five minutes later, Emma swept in, still fastening the buttons on her school uniform. She pecked him on the cheek before sliding into her chair.
"Good morning, brother."
"Good morning, princess."
She reached for bread. "Anything interesting in the news?"
Alex scanned the headlines. "Well… they're reporting on the situation in East Asia—Japan's advance in the war against China. Seems the Treaty of Shimonoseki might soon be on the table. And here—'February 14th, 1895: Coldest Winter in Ten Years,'" he read aloud.
"Boring," she declared, already losing interest.
"Eat quickly or you'll be late for school," Alex said, sipping his tea.
She polished off her bread, slung her heavy satchel over her shoulder, and popped an olive into her mouth. "Goodbye, brother."
He watched her disappear into the morning fog. Though they were far from wealthy, their father's house—located in one of the better districts—was close to her private girls' school. The fees were steep, but Alex would not have her attend anywhere else.
After breakfast, he cleared the dishes and sat down to rest, but a firm knock came at the door.
A middle-aged man stood there, cigarette between his fingers.
"Is my watch ready, young man?"
"Ah, Mr. Hopkins—yes, just a moment." Alex stepped into the workshop.
As he reached for the finished watch, something caught his eye—a corner of an envelope protruding from the gap of the lower drawer. His name was written on the front in a hand he recognised but had not seen in years.
It hadn't been there this morning.
He hesitated, but Mr. Hopkins was waiting. Retrieving the man's watch, he exchanged it for a few coins and polite words before returning to the drawer.
Sliding it open, he found the envelope, heavier than it should have been. Inside was a folded letter, a brass key unlike any he'd seen before… and his father's old pocket watch.
His pulse quickened.
He unfolded the letter. The first line read:
My dear son…
Alex's eyes went wide. "What the devil—?" he muttered.
For a long moment, Alex could only stare at the letter, the neat handwriting blurring as his thoughts raced. When the first shock passed, he forced himself to read it through.
My dear son,If this letter has found its way to you, then I have been gone far too long. By the time you read these words, I may be dead—or I may yet live, though in a place you cannot easily reach.I must pass my inheritance to you. You may choose to bear this burden, or to turn away. The choice is yours.Everything will be revealed in the watch, but only after you open the basement door of our house. Should you embark on this journey, be prepared for all that awaits you. Behind that door lies a fate that will shape the lives—or deaths—of many, for you are the Clockmaker's Heir.Take care of my little sweetheart. I love you both dearly. We shall meet again—if fate allows.—Thomas
Alex set the letter down, a knot tightening in his chest. Was his father somewhere alive, waiting? Or was this a message sent from the edge of death, a final goodbye wrapped in riddles? The hope and dread twisted together until he could scarcely tell them apart.
His gaze fell upon the pocket watch. It was the one his father had carried every day—a heavy, ancient thing of dark brass, its surface etched with curling lines that hinted at some forgotten language. The chain was thick, each link worn smooth by years of touch. When held, the metal seemed to carry a faint warmth, as though it remembered the hand that once kept it close.
Beside it lay the key. It was unlike any key Alex had seen: large, iron-black, the metal pitted with rust yet engraved with strange, looping designs that shimmered faintly in the lamplight.
"What in God's name is in that basement?" he murmured.
He remembered the wooden door hidden below—a door his father had warned him and Emma never to approach. It had been there for as long as he could remember, always locked, its purpose never spoken of.
Sliding the watch into his waistcoat pocket, Alex lit a fresh candle. The flame trembled as he descended the narrow steps into the basement, each board creaking under his weight. The air grew cooler with every step, smelling faintly of damp stone and oil.
The door stood before him at the far wall—tall, oak-dark, its surface bound in iron bands. The keyhole gleamed faintly in the candlelight.
He fitted the key into place. It turned with a low, grinding resistance, and then—silence.
A moment later, a sound like clockwork filled the air: soft clicks and metallic whirs, as if hidden gears had lain dormant for decades and now stirred to life. The iron bands shifted, plates sliding away in a pattern too complex for his eyes to follow, and the door swung open of its own accord.
Beyond was a tunnel, narrow and black, swallowing the candlelight.
Alex took a slow breath. "Here goes nothing."
He stepped across the threshold.
At once, the door swung shut behind him with a deep, resonant thud. He spun back, but the iron bands had sealed once more. He was too late.
A chill wind rushed through the tunnel, snuffing his candle in an instant. Darkness folded around him like a shroud. He could hear his own breath, sharp and quick, and beneath it, the pounding of his heart.
"Em…" The thought tore through him. I can't leave you—not after everything.
Then, against his ribs, the pocket watch began to tremble. He pulled it free, flipping it open by instinct.
A blue light burst from within, casting its glow over the walls of the tunnel. Words shimmered in the air above it:
[ Welcome, Clockmaker's Heir ]