Chapter1
The clockmaker of .
The Clockmaker of Rain Street
On the narrowest street in the city, where sunlight arrived late and left early, stood a shop that did not exist yesterday.
Arin noticed it because he walked the same route every day — from his rented apartment to the railway office where he checked train schedules that rarely changed. Routine was his only companion after Mira died. Two years had passed, yet his days remained carefully arranged to avoid memories.
But that morning, between the bakery and the closed tailor's shop, there was a wooden door painted deep blue.
Above it hung a sign:
"Larkspur & Son — Repairs for Broken Time."
Arin stopped.
He was certain the place hadn't been there before.
He almost continued walking.
Almost.
Then the bell rang.
He hadn't touched the door yet — but it opened anyway.
Inside
The shop smelled like rain long after rain had ended.
Clocks filled every wall — tall grandfather clocks, tiny pocket watches, brass alarm clocks, pendulums swinging in different rhythms. None agreed with each other. Time here was a crowd arguing politely.
Behind a desk sat an old man polishing a watch crystal.
"You're late," the man said.
Arin frowned. "For what?"
The old man looked up. His eyes were not old.
"For the day you stopped living."
Arin should have left.
Instead, he stepped inside.
The Clock
"Something of yours is broken," the old man said. "People only come here when time refuses to move properly."
Arin laughed nervously. "My watch works fine."
"I didn't say a watch."
The old man opened a drawer and took out a pocket watch — silver, dented near the hinge.
Arin's breath stopped.
It was Mira's.
He had buried it with her.
"You— where did you get that?"
"You brought it," the old man replied calmly. "You always do."
"That's impossible."
"Yes," the old man said gently. "But here we are."
The Rules
The old man wound the watch once.
The shop fell silent.
Every clock stopped.
"You have three visits," he said. "Each time you wind this watch, you may return to one moment. You may watch, speak, or change something small."
Arin's hands trembled. "Change?"
"Careful," the old man said. "Time is a story already written in ink. You may smudge a word, not rewrite the chapter."
"And Mira?"
The old man held his gaze.
"You may meet her again."
First Visit
Arin wound the watch.
The shop vanished.
He stood at the train platform.
Rain.
Mira sat beside him, laughing about nothing important — a stray dog that had stolen someone's lunch, a man arguing with a ticket machine.
This was three weeks before the accident.
His throat tightened.
He wanted to tell her everything: Don't travel that day. Don't take that bus. Stay home. Stay alive.
Instead, he remembered the rule.
Small change.
He handed her the umbrella.
"You'll need this soon," he said.
She smiled. "You hate sharing umbrellas."
"Today I don't."
The moment dissolved.
Back in the shop, one clock ticked again.
The old man nodded. "One word smudged."
"What did that do?" Arin asked.
"We'll see."
Second Visit
Arin wound the watch again.
Hospital room.
The night after the accident.
Machines breathing for her.
He remembered this night — he hadn't said much, afraid words would make death real.
Now he sat beside her again.
Her eyes opened slightly.
"Arin?" she whispered.
In the real past, he had only held her hand.
Now he spoke.
"You were right," he said softly. "About everything. About the trip. About moving away. I was afraid of change… not of losing you."
Her weak smile formed.
"I know."
He leaned closer.
"I never said it enough."
She breathed slowly.
"You will," she whispered.
The moment shattered.
Back in the shop, two clocks ticked.
The old man poured tea.
"You gave time a sentence it was missing."
"Will she live?" Arin asked.
The old man did not answer.
Third Visit
His hands shook before winding.
"What happens after the third?" he asked.
The old man looked tired for the first time.
"You keep living forward."
Arin closed his eyes and wound it.
Morning.
Sunlight.
Their apartment kitchen.
The day before the accident.
She was searching for her watch — the pocket watch — irritated.
"I swear I left it here."
Arin remembered. She'd been late because she couldn't find it.
Late enough to catch the bus instead of the train.
He understood.
Small change.
He placed the watch in her bag silently.
She looked relieved. "Found it! Good — I'll make the train now."
She kissed his cheek and left.
The world went white.
After
The shop was gone.
Only the bakery and tailor's shop remained.
Arin stood alone in the street, holding nothing.
No watch.
No proof.
Only memory.
He walked home slowly.
His apartment door was painted yellow.
It had always been gray.
Inside, shoes he didn't recognize sat beside his own.
The kettle whistled.
A voice called from the kitchen:
"Arin? You're late again."
He froze.
Mira stood there — older, alive, sunlight in her hair.
She frowned playfully. "You look like you saw a ghost."
His knees nearly failed.
"Did… did you take the train that day?" he asked.
"Of course," she said. "Why?"
He began to laugh and cry at the same time.
She hugged him. "You're strange today."
He held her tighter than any past version of himself ever had.
Epilogue
Years later, while cleaning old drawers, Arin found a small brass key he didn't recognize.
Attached was a faded tag:
Larkspur & Son — Repairs for Broken Time
He looked at Mira, now asleep beside the window.
For a moment, he wondered if the shop still existed.
Then he closed the drawer.
Some doors are only meant to open once.
And some repairs are permanent.
The End