That night the rain had thinned to a whisper, the sort that came and went without a sound of beginning or end. From the kitchen, Dev heard the low clink of steel plates as his mother cleaned up after dinner. She didn't speak much anymore; grief had made her efficient. The house smelled faintly of detergent and cardamom.
In the corner room, the workshop waited.
He switched on the light. It hummed once before steadying.The clocks—dozens of them—lined the walls like silent witnesses. A few still held their pendulums, some missing weights, others just glass faces staring empty. The table was scattered with gears, watch hands, and his father's small screwdriver wrapped in a scrap of old newspaper.
Dev set down his schoolbag and wound one of the pocket watches again.Click. Click.He turned the crown until he felt the tension bite, then released it.Nothing.
He tried another. Then another.Each ticked once, sharply, before stopping. The sound reminded him of hiccups that never finished.
He sat on the stool, elbows on his knees, and listened.Outside, the town breathed: a passing scooter, the call of a late vendor, the wet scrape of a window shutter. Inside, a clock somewhere near the cupboard ticked once—and did not tick again.The air seemed to thicken around the silence.
Dev's gaze drifted toward the window. Raindrops clung to the glass but didn't slide. The fan's shadow on the wall stayed still, even though he could hear the faint hum of its motor.
He blinked.
The drops began to fall again. The shadow moved.The world had only paused, not stopped.
From the kitchen, his mother called softly, "Dev? You turned off the radio?"
He frowned. "It was never on."
A faint crackle answered from the shelf—static, as though the radio had caught its breath and forgotten the words. Then it went silent again.
He stood there, feeling the faintest vibration beneath his skin. Not pain, not cold—something like the echo of motion remembered.The clocks on the wall resumed ticking all at once, just slightly out of sync, a stuttering choir of seconds.
His mother appeared at the doorway, drying her hands on her saree."You're still in here?"
He nodded, eyes still on the clocks."They're… starting again," he said, voice barely above a whisper.
She smiled, tiredly. "Good. Your father would have liked that."
But Dev wasn't sure if they were starting—or if they were catching up.
When she left, he reached for the nearest clock, placed his palm flat against the glass. The second hand trembled beneath his skin, hesitant, as if waiting for permission.