In the heart of the old town, nestled between a crumbling apothecary and a closed-down tailor’s shop, stood a curious little store with faded gold lettering across the window: Thorne & Sons – Horologists Since 1824. Most of the townspeople passed by it without a second glance. It was only the occasional tourist or a particularly observant child who noticed the elegant dance of gears and pendulums displayed in the front window.
Inside, the shop was a museum of time. Grandfather clocks lined the walls, ticking in a staggered symphony. Pocket watches gleamed under glass domes, each one carefully labeled with a date and name. The air smelled of oil, old wood, and something else—something older still, like time itself had soaked into the floorboards.
The shop’s sole occupant was Mr. Alden Thorne, the last of the Thorne line. Bent with age, his spectacles permanently perched at the end of his nose, he moved like the hands of a clock—deliberate and precise. Despite his age, he was sharp, with a memory like a steel trap and fingers still steady enough to reset the tiniest cog.
Few knew Alden’s full story. Fewer still had ever seen the room behind the heavy red curtain at the back of the shop. He claimed it was his workroom, but strange noises sometimes echoed from it at odd hours—clanks, chimes, and a soft humming, like a lullaby sung by the wind.
One rainy evening, just as Alden was about to close, a girl named Elsie stumbled into the shop. She couldn’t have been more than twelve, her raincoat soaked, eyes wide and curious.
“I’m sorry,” she panted. “But something’s wrong with my grandmother’s watch. It stopped ticking this morning. It’s never done that before.”
She held out a delicate silver timepiece, the kind worn on a chain around the neck. Alden took it with reverence, his expression growing unreadable.
“Where did your grandmother get this?” he asked.
“She said it was a gift. From a man she once loved, long ago.”
Alden nodded slowly. “Wait here,” he said.
He disappeared behind the red curtain.
Minutes ticked by. Elsie wandered, peering into dusty glass cases. Her reflection stared back, distorted by curved glass and age. She was just about to call out when the curtain moved again.
But it wasn’t Alden who emerged—it was a much younger man. He had the same eyes, the same nose. He was Alden, yet not.
Elsie gasped. “What happened to you?”
He smiled, brushing dust from his waistcoat. “Time,” he said simply. “Sometimes, it can be mended. Sometimes, it can be… borrowed.”
He handed her the watch. It was ticking again, stronger than ever. She stared at it, then back at him.
“Go now,” he said gently. “Tell your grandmother it will keep time again. And tell her… Alden remembers.”
Elsie left, her head spinning, the watch warm in her palm. Behind her, the door to Thorne & Sons closed with a soft chime.
The next morning, the shop was gone. Where it once stood was an empty lot, overgrown with weeds. The neighbors claimed it had been empty for years.
Elsie didn’t believe them. The watch around her neck was
