The dream lingered long after Vyom's eyes opened.
A flash of sky, a rush of air, and that feeling—falling, falling endlessly through silence. The image was gone before he could grasp it, but the fear stayed. His small hands clutched the blanket tightly as sweat rolled down his temple.
Morning light crept through the old window, spilling across the wooden floor and over the shelves lined with clocks. The rhythmic ticking echoed through the room like a thousand heartbeats. Vyom turned his head slowly toward the far corner.
The doll sat exactly where it had been last night. Its stitched smile and empty glass eyes stared right at him.
For a moment, Vyom thought he heard it breathe.
He blinked—and the illusion vanished. It was only the sound of the clocks.
Still, a whisper from his dream seemed to echo faintly inside his head.
"Don't fall again… not yet."
He shook his head hard and muttered, "Just a dream," before pushing himself out of bed.
---
Downstairs, the world smelled of oil, brass, and the faint sweetness of burning coal. His father's workshop occupied most of the small house—a universe made of ticking gears and swinging pendulums.
"Awake at last," his father said without looking up, the loupe still fitted over his eye. "The clocks have been waiting for your company, Vyom."
Vyom rubbed his eyes, smiling faintly. "They never sleep, Papa."
"That's why they last longer than men," his father replied, smiling slightly before turning back to the disassembled pocket watch on the desk.
Anant Das was known throughout the town as the man who could give time a voice. From dawn till dusk, the sound of ticking filled the air—a melody only he could conduct.
Vyom's mother called from the kitchen, her voice warm as sunlight.
"Come have breakfast before your tea gets cold, Vyom!"
He rushed to the table, greeted by the scent of cardamom and paratha. His grandmother sat near the window, wrapped in her faded shawl, the early breeze playing with her silver hair.
"You were crying in your sleep again," she said softly, her voice gentle but knowing.
Vyom froze mid-bite. "I—I wasn't crying. It was just a dream."
She smiled sadly. "Dreams are windows, my boy. Sometimes they show the past, sometimes what should never be seen."
Before Vyom could respond, his sister appeared, her long braid bouncing as she walked in.
"Still talking about ghosts, Grandma?" she teased. "Vyom's scared enough already. Yesterday he screamed because the doll moved in the dark."
"It did move!" Vyom protested. "It talks too!"
His sister laughed and flicked his forehead. "Then maybe it likes you."
Everyone chuckled, the small kitchen filling with warmth. For a moment, the world was simple—clocks ticking, laughter ringing, and sunlight spilling across the worn tiles.
---
Later that day, Vyom wandered into his father's workshop. The air was thick with dust and the smell of metal polish. Hundreds of clocks ticked in chaotic harmony.
"Papa," he asked quietly, "why do you love clocks so much?"
Anant smiled without looking up. "Because, Vyom, time never lies. It keeps moving forward—whether you want it to or not. Every clock is honest."
"But… can they ever go back?"
His father paused, setting down the screwdriver. For a long moment, the only sound was ticking.
"Some clocks try," he said at last. "Those are the dangerous ones."
Vyom tilted his head. "Dangerous?"
"Time should only flow forward, my son. If it starts to turn back… people get lost in it."
The boy didn't fully understand, but the words sank deep into his heart, as if they were meant for something he had yet to remember.
---
On a side shelf sat a peculiar pocket watch—its glass cracked, its minute hand stuck between twelve and one. It looked older than any other piece in the workshop.
Curious, Vyom reached out to touch it.
The instant his finger brushed the cold metal, the second hand twitched. Just once.
He gasped and stepped back.
"Vyom!" his father's voice snapped like thunder. He snatched the watch away, eyes sharp with sudden fear. "Never touch this again, understand?"
"But… it moved."
"It's broken," Anant said firmly, placing it inside a locked drawer. "Some things are meant to stay that way."
Vyom nodded silently, but his gaze lingered on the drawer. He could still feel the faint hum of that pocket watch pulsing in his fingertips.
---
That night, the ticking of clocks seemed louder than ever.
They ticked out of rhythm, as if whispering secrets to one another in code.
Vyom lay awake, staring at the ceiling. The moonlight cut across the room, silvering the edges of the shelves. The doll sat on the chair near the window, its shadow stretching long across the floor.
"Hey…" he whispered. "You spoke yesterday. Who are you?"
Silence.
Then, faintly—so faintly he almost thought he imagined it—came a voice, smooth and low, like wind slipping through old wood.
"A friend… watching over you."
Vyom's breath caught. He sat up, staring at the doll. Its glass eyes reflected the moonlight—two cold sparks staring back.
"Why do I keep dreaming of falling?" he asked softly.
No reply came. Only the ticking.
He lay down again, pulling the blanket close. The ticking grew louder. The air felt heavier.
Just before sleep claimed him, he noticed one thing—the small clock near his bed, the one that always ticked the loudest, had stopped.
Its hands were frozen at 3:03.
And somewhere deep inside the drawer in the workshop, the broken pocket watch ticked once.
Just once.
---
End of Chapter 2 – "The Clockmaker's Son"