Speaker 1: Hello there, I'm your storyteller for tonight. Take a slow
breath in through your nose and gently let it out.
Let your shoulders soften, let your hands rest. You've arrived
in a quiet moment, and you don't need to do
anything at all. You are safe, You are welcome.
Speaker 2: Here.
Speaker 1: Tonight we'll drift into a gentle world, one shaped by
calm and soft imagination. Let your breath steady, let your
thoughts grow lighter, settle in, and allow the story to begin.
It is early morning in a narrow street of a
quiet town. The sky carries the soft gray of steady rain.
Drops slide down iron railings and gather at the base
of old brick walls. Inside a small workshop, a single
lamp burns pale and golden, turning the shelves of clocks
into sleeping faces that glow and weight. The air smells
of pine oil and paper. Every surface carries a thin
dust that looks like time itself. The clockmaker, mister Alden,
lifts the shutter from the window and lets the muted
light enter. He is slow in every motion, not from age,
but from habit. He believes that time listens best to
those who do not rush it. He sets his teapot
on a narrow stove, adds a pinch of leaves, and
waits for the sound of first boiling. Around him, the
clocks begin their waking. Some tick, some hum, some stand silent,
saving their rhythm for later. Beneath the lowest work bench,
a drawer sits half open. In that drawer, curled within
a small nest of wool, lies Mallow, a brown mouse
no larger than a teacup. Tidy in his ways and
gentle in his thoughts, he opens one eye when the
first chime stirs. The air is warm, the floor carries
the faint vibration of gears beginning their quiet day. He
stretches his paws, smooths his whiskers, and listens tick, pause, tick,
Another beat farther away, then the whisper of rain against glass.
The workshop has its own weather, and he knows each
sound by heart. He climbs to the lip of the
drawer and peers into the open room. Mister Alden stands
at the bench, polishing a small brass wheel. His spectacles
rest low on his nose, and the lamp above him
reflects two circles of gentle fire. Mallow watches the way
the man turns each piece between his fingers. No movement wasted,
no noise louder than a breath. The rhythm comforts him.
The clockmaker hums a low line of tune without words.
It drifts through the air like smoke from the teapot.
Mallow follows the sound to the edge of his drawer,
jumps softly to the floor, and lands between two broad
boards that sigh under his weight. The boards remember every
step he has taken. He crosses to the tall clock
near the window and presses an ear against the wooden
frame inside. The pendulum begins its swing. The sound fills
his chest. It is the kind of sound that steadies
everything around it. He stays there, breathing in time with
a slow return. Mister Alden pours tea into a mug
and lifts another cup beside it. He always pours two,
though only one is ever used. The habit makes a
room feel complete. He takes a small sip and lets
the steam cloud his glasses. He writes a note in
a narrow book, the date, the weather, and a single
word calm. He sets the pen aside and leans back
on the stool. The workshop is a forest of tiny
suns and soft reflections on one shelf, a line of
pocket watches, gleams like dew on a branch on another.
Rows of silent wall clocks weight with open faces, Mallow
moves among them, tail low steps even He stops at
the base of the bench, where a gear the size
of a coin lies beside a folded cloth. He touches
the metal and feels the chill that will soon become
warmth when the clockmaker's hands return to it. A bird
taps at the window. Finch, the small house sparrow, slips
through the vent abo the frame and lands on the
corner beam. Rain Drops fall from his feathers, and a
single one lands on the lamp shade. It hisses, then cools,
leaving only a scent of wet dust. The bird chirps,
once short and polite, then tucks one foot into his plumage.
Mallow glances up and nods in his tiny way. Finch
answers with a soft flutter, then stay still, content to
share the silence. The three of them, man, mouse, bird
breathe in the same rhythm for a while. Only the
clock speak, and even they do so with courtesy. When
the kettle gives its second sigh, mister alden rises. He
winds the clock by the door. The key turns slow,
the spring accepts its strength, and the hands shift a
fraction forward. He whispers something the mouse cannot hear, but
understands all the same. It is a blessing of patience.
Mallow returns to his drawer and arranges a crumb of
bread beside his wall. He eats a piece no larger
than a seed, then sits, listening to the rain taper
to a fine mist. The workshop smells of tea and brass.
The tall clock marks each breath outside. The town still
sleeps inside. Time has begun again, not as command, but
as companion. He curls once more into the warmth and
lets his eye grow heavy, not to sleep, but to listen.
The sound of the pendulum is steady. The rain is
softer now. The man hums under his breath. Somewhere above,
the sparrow settles his wings. The day he stretches forward
with no demand. Only the quiet ticking carries it step
by step into peace. The morning passes with the slow
patience of rain. Light thickens behind the windows and spreads
across the benches like thin milk poured over wood. The
air hums with a hundred faint pulses. Each clock chooses
its own rhythm, yet none of them argue together. They
make the workshop breathe. Mallow wakes again. When the kettle clicks,
He sits upright in his drawer whiskers forward. He knows
this sound means another hour has slipped by. He climbs
to the edge, lowers himself to the floor, and begins
his small inspection of the world. Every morning he follows
the same path, and every morning he finds it changed
in some tiny way. A new shadow, a gear turned,
a cup moved half an inch closer to the window.
Mister Alden stands over the long bench near the back wall.
He has rolled up his sleeves. The thin fabric shows
the motion of muscles trained by gentle repetition. In front
of him lies a heavy clockcase of dark walnut, the
varnishes worn, the glass cloudy. It looks older than most
of the others. He runs a finger across the face
and lifts the lid. A faint, metallic sigh escapes, as
if the clock itself remembers sound. Inside gears rest like
frozen stars. The balance wheel hangs at an angle. He
studies the mechanism in silence, then murmurs a few quiet words,
not disappointment, only greeting. He sets the case upright and
tilts the lamp so its light reaches into the cavity.
Mallow crouches under a stool and watches. The man traces
a wire with the tip of a screwdriver. He nods slowly,
almost smiling. Lost its heart, he whispers. Then he writes
the same words in his notebook. His script is careful,
small loops, neat slant. He leaves the page open beside
the clock. Mallow tilts his head, a clock with a
missing heart. He tries to imagine where hearts hide inside machines,
perhaps in the wheel that turns the others, or in
the smallest gear that no one sees. He creeps closer,
his paws silent on the wood. The smell of oil
is strong, but clean. He peers up through the shadow
under the bench and sees the gap near the lower plate.
Something is gone from there, a round space of dust
where brightness used to live. A sound from above makes
him pause. Finch has returned. Tapping at the side window.
The bird shakes the water from his feathers, then flutters
down to the bench rail. He carries something glinting in
his beak, a fragment of brass, curved like a crescent moon.
He drops it beside the open notebook. Mister Alden looks up.
He blinks behind his lenses, then smiles at the small gift.
What have you brought, little friend, he says softly. He
picks up the fragment between his fingers. The piece is thin,
half polished, one edge smooth, the other rough. He holds
it near the lamp. The brass catches the glow and
throws a thin beam across the workbench. He turns it
once twice, then places it beside the old clock. The
workshop falls into that deep quiet again, the kind that
exists between steady sounds. The tall clock keeps its pulse,
the wall clocks marked their slower phrases. Mallow feels the
air become a net of soft rhythm. He moves closer
to the bench leg and looks up at the fragment.
It shines like something that belongs to a story. He
wonders if this could be the heart the clock has lost.
Mister Alden does not hurry. He writes another note beneath
the first, keep aside for fitting. Then he closes the
book and lets his hand rest on the cover. He
leans back, closes his eyes for a moment, and listens
to the rain. The droplets tap on the glass with
no fixed tempo, yet somehow they join the clocks in
their gentle weave. Mallow climbs onto the low shelf below
the bench. From here he can see the motion of
the man's breath in and out, slow and sure. The
lamp light glows through the rising sun. From the second
cup of tea. The scent of leaves drifts through the room,
warm and earthy. The mouse feels his small heartbeat begins
to match the larger rhythm of the space. Finch hops once,
sending a ripple of tiny shadows across the bench. The
movement startles nothing, even the flame stays steady. The bird
tucks its head and closes one eye. Outside the street
hums with carts rolling over damp stones. The world beyond
the window feels far away, as though the glass divides
two versions of time, one that hurries, one that breathes.
Mister Alden reaches for a cloth, wipes the brass piece gently,
and sets it back beside the clock case. He does
not yet try to fit it. He believes that some
repairs require the patience of silence. He lets the object
stay in sight, trusting that the answer will come on
its own. He turns off the lamp and opens the
door for a moment. Fresh air enters, cool and wet.
The smell of rain fills the room and folds into
the scent of metal. Mallow watches from the shelf as
the man closes the door again and locks it loosely,
a gesture more of habit than caution. The sound of
the latch is soft. The workshop returns to its inner weather.
The clocks breathe together, the little brass crescent waits. Mallow
lowers himself to the floor. He sits near the base
of the wall and listens. He can hear the difference. Now,
all the other clocks beating and this one silent. He
thinks of the word heart and how it feels inside
his chest. When the tall clock swings. He decides that
if something can lose its heart, maybe it can also
find it again. He curls his tail around his paws
and stays there until the rain turns from steady to whisper.
The window glows dim, the room grows warm. Mister Alden's
pen scratches a final line. Somewhere behind him, a faint sound,
like footsteps fading down a quiet road. The mouse closes
his eyes, breathing in the scent of brass and tea,
and listens to the one clock that does not yet tick,
waiting for the moment when it will. Afternoon arrives without edges,
the kind of hour that slips into the room as
a warmer shade of gray. The rain loosens and gathers,
then loosens again, not tired, only thoughtful. The lamps breathe
at a lower glow. The tall clock keeps the room together,
its pendulum drawing a slow like a calm hand smoothing
a page. The other clocks answer with patient steps, each
one honoring the space between beats. Mister Alden finishes his
tea and sets the cup near the open notebook. He
does not close the book. He lets the words rest there,
as if they need air, keep aside for fitting. The
brass crescent lies on the folded cloth, quiet as a
small moon on a clean shore. He wipes his glasses
and leans closer to the old walnut case. He does
not touch the piece. He only studies the path where
it might belong, and he listens for a thought that
does not use words. Mallow leaves the shelter of the
lower shelf and crosses the floor. The boards remember him
and do not complain. He moves in a line that
has become his map. Bench leg to tall stool, to
base board, to the little gap beneath the drawer. He
pauses at the stool and looks up. From here he
can see the side of the workshop that holds the
wall clocks, a quiet field of pale faces and dark hands.
Some are wound, some are waiting, none are lost. He
stands and counts two beats with the tall clock before
he goes on. Finch has found a place near the
window latch, feathers rounded, one eye open, one eye resting.
The bird's breath is quick, but not anxious. Every few
minutes he untuckses head and gives a short, soft call,
as if to say I am here, And then he
settles again. A dot of rain clings to the iron
latch and becomes a tiny lens, and through that lens
the street turns to a blur of silver lines. Mister
Alden opens a narrow row draw and lifts a strip
of thin leather. He runs it between finger and thumb
and nods. He rolls the leather into a loop and
sets it aside. He will knead it later, or perhaps not,
but it is good to let tools wait where they
can be seen. He adjusts the lamp by a hair's width,
and in that new light, the inside of the clock
seems deeper, the metal darker at the edges, the empty
space more itself. Mallow approaches the bench leg and pauses.
He knows that after noon is the hour for observation.
Morning is for waking, evening is for closing, and afternoon
is for learning. He climbs the small angle brace and
settles near the folded cloth that smells of oil and
careful hands. He sits very still. He watches the way
the room moves, without moving. The old walnut case holds its.
It is not the silence of refusal. It is the
silence of listening. Mallow can feel it the way he
feels the warmth from the lamp, not on the skin,
but behind it. He imagines how the gears will speak
when their voice returns, not loud, not proud, only steady.
He lets that imagined sound fill the space in his
chest where worries sometimes try to gather, and he finds
there is no room left for worry. Now outside, a
cart passes with soft wooden knocks, and then another, and
then the street grows thin again. Somewhere beyond the window,
a door closes, as if it is made of cloth.
The town has learned, whether the way the workshop has
learned time, not as a problem, only as a companion.
A child's laugh lifts and fades, already a memory by
the time it reaches the glass. Mister Olden places his
hand lightly on the bench and counts three breaths. He
closes his eyes, He lets his shoulders drop. He opens
his eyes and writes a single line beneath the last.
Listen longer. He taps the end of the pen on
the margin once twice, and sets it down. He checks
the tall clock, not because he doubts it, but because
attension is a kind of thanks. Mallow studies the tiny
screws along the lower plate. He learns their pattern the
way he learns the lines of the floor. He could
find them again in darkness. Now he shifts his weight
and looks toward the little pile of parts. On the
cloth springs a pin like a thread, of light, a
washer that is almost too thin to see. The brass
crescent rests apart from the others. Only honored finch spreads
one wing and lets it fall, sending a sigh of
dust from the beam to the bench, a soft driftin
that looks like a lazy snowfall over a small country.
The room keeps its quiet language. The lamp hums a word,
The metal answers, the wooden cases keep counsel. When mister
Alden moves, the air follows him in an easy ripple.
He wipes the rim of the old case, then stops
before the cloth makes a second pass. Enough. He smiles
a little at that word enough is an art. He
steps back, lifts the second cup and remembers it is empty.
He fills the kettle and waits without looking at it.
He reads the notebook instead, and in reading it he
does not search for wisdom. He simply turns to the
place where his thoughts were last seen. Mallow feels the
pull of the tall clock and steps down from the brace.
He walks along the base board and rests with his
side against the warm wood. He consents the pendulum through
the panel, a steady weight, drawing a slow line through
the air, forward and home, forward and home. He sets
his breath to that same pace. He imagines that every
swing is the kindly sweep of a broom across a
dusty floor inside his mind, making room for calm to
sit a while longer. The kettle murmurs, then yields its
sharp little song. Mister Alden removes it at once, not
a second of boiling more than is needed. He pours
water over the leaves and leans on the counter, waiting
while the steam makes the window fog. The inch gives
a tiny complaint, then forgives the moment and returns to
his single eye of rest. The man lifts the pot
and tips a measure into his cup. A leaf rides
the surface, circles once, then stills. The brass crescent glows
and dims with each sway of the lamp. Mallow steps
toward it and stops at a respectful distance. He does
not touch it. He studies the smooth edge and the
rough edge, and how the roughness looks less like a
floor and more like a history. He wonders how many
hours and days live inside the marks on that metal.
He thinks about time as a thing that can be seen.
Then lets the thought pass because he prefers it as
a thing that can be felt. Rain returns in a
fine weave, thin threads on glass. Mister Alden opens the
door of fingers with to trade a breath of air
with the street, then closes it. He walks the length
of the workshop, tall clock to wall, clocks to bench,
a slow patrol of a small country he loves. He
listens at three points, nods once at nothing, and sits.
He takes the brass crescent in hand, holds it near
the opening where the clock is quiet, and then sets
it down again. Not yet the word is not a refusal.
It is a welcome that asks for one more moment.
Mallow understands that word not yet is a kind of
kindness who means there will be a time when the
waiting itself becomes part of the cure. He turns and
looks toward his drawer, then decides to stay where he is.
Afternoon keeps its hold on the room, the hour stretched
like a soft ribbon that will not break. Finch wakes fully,
hops to the bench and regards the cloth where the
parts are gathered. He pecks once at a thread and
lets it go. He tips his head and studies the
clock face. The hands do not move, yet the face
is not empty. It holds the memory of movement, the
way a beach holds the shape of a wave. After
the water has slid back to sea. The bird's chest
lifts in quick pulses. He gives a sound so small
it might be a kind of agreement. Mister Alden takes
a breath that is almost a sigh, and reaches for
the folded cloth. He cleans the lamp glass with slow
circles until the flame shines clear. He wipes the bench
corner to corner. He draws a line with his finger
through a thin dust near the edge, and smiles at
the mark, as if he has signed his name in
a language the room can read. He sets the cloth
down so its fold points toward the old clock, a
gesture that looks like an arrow and feels like a blessing.
Mallow steps back and takes in the hall, not just
the part the walls, the shelves, the tall clock with
its listening heart, the silent case waiting for a rhythm
to return. The man in his patient chair, the bird
near the window, the rain beyond the glass that does
not insist on being noticed, yet is always there. He
feels a stillness rise through him that has nothing to
do with staying put. It is the stillness that comes
when everything is in the right place, even if one
thing is not moving yet. The light lowers one degree.
The lamp's answer, with a warmer tone, shadows soften at
the edge. Mister Alden lives the notebook again and writes
a final line for the hour. Soon perhaps, he leaves
the page open. He lets the ink dry without hurry.
He takes the brass crescent one more time and gives
it the smallest turn between finger and thumb. He listens,
He waits, He puts it back. Mallow returns to the
baseboard and sits with his tail around his paws. He
closes his eyes and follows the pendulum breath in, out,
in out. The room makes a careful promise to the evening,
and the evening, not yet arrived, nods from the doorway.
The clocks continue, not louder, not softer, only sure. The
old walnut case keeps its silence like a shell keeps
the sea, the mouse, the bird, the man, and the
room rest in the same simple truth. Waiting is also
movement when it is done with love. Evening folds itself
along the window glass. The gray turns to a blue
that carries no cold, only depth. Lamps rise a little
in answer. The tall clock holds its calm law at
the center of the room. The wall clocks keep their
own small paths, like planets that know the weight of
their stars. The old walnut case waits on the bench
with its back open to the warm light. The brass
crescent rests nearby, a soft curve on a square of cloth,
a quiet moon on a quiet field. Mister Alden stands
and smooths the front of his apron with both palms.
He looks at the notebook, where the last line reads.
Soon perhaps he closes the book by touching only the edge,
as if the words were delicate and should not be disturbed.
He lifts the lamp and angles it so the shadow
inside the case becomes a shallow pool rather than a cave.
He breathes in, he breathes out, and the room seems
to follow. Mallow sits near the base of the bench leg.
He lifts his face to the light and watches the
hands that know this table better than any map. He
sees how the man does not reach for the crescent
at once. He checks the hinge, the plate, the wire
that hums when a finger draws close. He listens to
the silence and decides that the silence is it ready.
Then he turns, and only then he gathers the small
moon of brass into his hand. Finch wakes and hops
to the rail. His head tilts, one eye bright, one
eye soft. He makes no sound. He understands without words
that a room can its breath and still feel gentle.
The rain has become a long lace of quiet thread
on thread almost too fine to see. It hangs there
and does not fall. Mister Alden chooses a tool with
a narrow tip. He rests the crescent on it, as
if the tool were a bridge and the crescent a traveler.
He brings it to the opening by degrees. He does
not push, he does not insist. He lets the shape
of the piece find the shape of its home. A pause,
the softest turn, a breath that is held for the
length of a heartbeat, and then let go. The edge
meets the rim of the plate. The curve settles with
a hush that is not a sound, only a change
in the air, a lightness that arrives at the back
of the tongue mallow feels the change under his paws.
The bench seems to to lower itself a grain, as
if relaxing from a long day of standing. The lamp warms,
the tall clock answers with no more than a single
degree of kindness, which is to say, it continues exactly
as it has been. And yet the mouse senses a
welcome in that steady beat. He inches forward and sits
very still. He does not blink, He does not breathe
for one small count, and then he breeds again. Mister
Alden sets the tool down, not on the cloth, not
on the bare wood, but on the small metal strip
meant for tools at rest. He closes his fingers once
and opens them, releasing the work from the work. He
lowers his face to the open back of the case
and looks. He looks with a sort of attention that
adds nothing and removes nothing. He nods a gesture so
small it becomes part of the lamb light. He touches
the pendulum with a fingertip that barely exists. The first
pass is a thought forward returning. The second is a
memory of a field, of a wind that moved the
tall grass one way, and then another, and then home.
The third is a promise, quiet and kept somewhere deep
in the walnut box. A gentle beat stands up and
shakes the sleep from its shoulders. It is not loud,
it is not quick, it is not proud. It is present.
It begins to belong. Finch gives a single breath of sound,
the briefest trill, and then is silent again. The tall
clock keeps its constant river. One wall clock drifts a
fraction and then returns to meet the new voice, as
if the room had shifted its weight from one foot
to the other and found both feet firm. The little
part on the cloth seem to listen. The notebook on
the bench seems to listen. The steam from the cooling
cup seems to listen as it vanishes into the blue
of evening. Mallow feels the beat moved through the boards
into his bones. It is a low note that does
not need a name. He knows he will remember it.
He knows that if he wakes in the middle of
some future night, and the world is large and the
mouse inside his chest is quick, he will be able
to call this beat to him, and it will come,
and he will sit in its company. Until his breath
lengthens again. Mister Alden closes the back of the case.
With two turns of the small key, he slides the
latch into place. He wipes the rim with the clean
end of the cloth, not to make it shine, only
to remove the last trace of his decision. He lifts
the clock and brings it to the wall, where a
pale circle has waited. He hangs it by the hook
that remembers the weight of years. He steps back. He
folds his hands together and listens with his eyes. Before
he listens with his ears, the room aligns, not sharply,
not like a line snap tort, but like a shore
that receives a tide and recognizes the tide as a friend.
The beat, so far apart, become a weave. The weave
becomes a soft garment thrown over the shoulders of the evening.
Finch tucks his head for a moment, and then looks again.
He is satisfied in the way of small creatures who
know when a place is good and when a place
is very good. Mallow walks along the baseboard and stops
beneath the new old beat. He watches the hands shift
the smallest space he thinks of the page in the
note book that said lost its heart. He thinks the
line that said keep aside for fitting. He wonders what
the next line will be. He does not need to
read it. He knows it will be a line that
belongs to this hour, and that is enough. Mister Alden
returns to the bench and sits. He opens the book
and writes found again. He does not raise, he does
not cross out. He lets the day hold both truths,
because both were true when they were written, and neither
truth harms the other. He closes the book and rests
his hand on the cover for the length of one
slow breath. He leaves the book where the lamp can
see it, which is to say he leaves it where
he will see it in the morning. The rain outside
is a map with no roads. It guides no one,
and yet every one who passes finds their way. A
cart rolls by with a wheel that clicks once each turn,
and for a time that click joins the room and
then moves on. A door opens somewhere far and lets
out a line of laughter that has forgotten why it began.
It fades and does not return. The workshop stays itself
mister Alden rinses the cups and dries them. He sets
the second cup upside down on its small saucer. He
straightens the cloth and returns the tools to their patient places.
He lowers one lamp and raises another by the slightest measure,
a balance learned by doing the same kind thing for years.
He touches the tall clock in thanks, and the tall
clock continues, which is its way of saying you are welcome.
Mallow climbs the leg of the bench and stands by
the corner where the cloth meets the wood. He looks
at the brass crescent now part of the hole, and
feels the ease in the air. He did not fit
the piece, he did not turn the screws. Yet he
shares in the quiet of the result, and that feels
like the right kind of belonging. He thinks of Finch
and his bright gift. He thinks of the way a
day can be made by a small bringing. Finch ruffles,
then slips to the beam above the window and closes
both eyes. His body learns the new beat as if
it were a branch under his feet. He sways a
fraction and stills. He is asleep in the honest way
of birds that live near kind hands. The window glass
holds the last light of blue, and then holds the
dark and kneads the one is a burden. Mister Alden
walks to the door and turns the sign to the
night side. He does not turn the key. He rests
his fingers on the knob and then lets go. He
returns to the center of the room and stands with
his hands behind his back. He listens as the beats
count him alive. He breathes in, he breathes out, and
with the out breath he smiles. He takes the stool
and sits for a while, longer, not to do anything,
only to be here when the hour changes. He likes
to be present at such small ceremonies. The mouse settles
on the bench brace and lets his muscles loosen. One
by one. The beat of the new old clock passes
through the brace and into his paws. The tall clock
draws its constant arc. The wall clocks form a meadow
of sound. The air is warm without asking the fire
to work. The oil lamp has learned the exact flame
that neither grows nor shrinks. Nothing strains, nothing argues, everything
accepts evening becomes night in a soft fold, and the
fold leaves no crease. Mister Alden lifts the notebook again,
not to write, only to hold it. He puts it down,
not because it is heavy, only because the moment is
light enough to be carried in the body. He stands.
He turns the lamp down in one degree. He gathers
the cloth, folds it once, then once more, and lays
it so the clean edge points toward the door, as
if to say that to morrow will arrive and be welcomed.
Mallow returns to the floor and walks the long, smooth
path to his drawer. He does not hurry. He passes
the tall clock, leans his shoulder to the panel, and
lets the pendulum give him a good night that is
not a word. He reaches the drawer and climbs the
face like a low hill. He slips inside and settles
into the wall that remembers his shape. He turns one way,
then the other, and then finds the middle. He closes
his eyes. He listens for the new beat. He hears it.
He knows it will be there when he wakes. The
workshop holds, the street quiets, the rain chooses the slower
stitch the lamps hold their soft gold. The notebook rests
the wall. Clock hands make their patient walk and do
not tire, because they are not in a race. They
are in a life. The night might bring a wind,
or it might not. It might bring a far bell,
or it might not. It will bring morning, but morning
is not invited yet. For now there is only the room,
the clocks, the man, the mouse, the bird, and the
gentle truth that time, when kept with love, keeps those
who keep it nigh, deepens like ink poured into clear water.
It spreads without hurry, and fills the edges of the
room until only the soft gold of the lamps remains.
Their light gathers in small pools along the benches and
on the faces of the clocks. The sound inside the
workshop has changed again. The beat of each pendulum feels slower,
not in pace, but in purpose, like breath that has
found its rhythm after a long day. Mister Olden sits
on the tall stool by the center bench. His hands
rest open on his knees. He is not working, not waiting.
He is listening. The steady sound of the new old
clock blends with the others until all distinction disappears. It
is one voice, now calm and sure. He looks around
the room as if greeting old friends after a quiet dinner.
His gaze stops at the wall where the walnut case hangs,
its face glowing faintly in the lamplight. He nods once,
not as approval, only as gratitude. The rain outside has
become a faint shimmer, barely enough to notice. The town
lies folded in damp sleep, no footsteps, no wheels, only
the hush of water moving along gutters and stone. A
window on the far side of the street shows a
single square of light. It belongs to another life, but
it does not intrude. It simply keeps company with the dark.
Mallow lifts his head from the wool nest and blinks
into the dimness. His small nose twitches. Reading the air,
it smells of metal, tea, and something gentle like paper
drying near warmth. He climbs to the rim of the
drawer and looks out. The workshop is a landscape of
shadow and steady glow. The clocks move like slow rivers,
unseen but heard. He stretches yawns without sound, and lets
his tail trace a line behind him. He walks down
the leg of the bench, quiet as falling dust. His
paws meet the cool board to the floor. The tall
clock stands near him, like a living tree in a
night forest. He leans his side against its base and
listens inside. The pendulum moves through air with the grace
of breath. Each swing is both question and answer. The
sound fills his chest and clears it. Mister Alden stands,
crosses to the sink and rinses the last cup of
the day. He dries it on a cloth and sets
it upside down upon its plate. Two cups, both clean,
both waiting. He takes the kettle off the stove and
empties the little water that remains. Then he turns the
lamp above the bench one degree lower. The wick flickers,
steadies and holds. Finch stirs from his place on the beam.
His feathers rustle softly, like pages being turned. He shifts
his feet, stretches a wing, and gives a short chirp
that sounds like a sigh. He peers down at the
man at the mouse, at the wall of clocks that
glow and tick and breathe. His head sinks into his
chest again. He falls back into that thin border between
waking and sleep. Mallow continues his walk, tracing the room's
familiar path. He passes the tall stool, the row of drawers,
the cluster of pocket watches line like small suns along
the shelf. He stops beneath the wall where the repaired
clock hangs. He sits and watches the second hand move
its slow circuit. It is not a race, but a
circle of comfort. He feels the rhythm reach him like
warm through fur. Mister Alden steps closer to the clock
and whispers something the mouse cannot hear. It might be nothing,
it might be thank you. He turns back to the
center bench and takes up his notebook. He writes the date,
and then one short sentence, time kept itself well tonight.
He sets the book down and leaves it open to dry.
The lamp near the window lowers itself as oil runs low.
Its flame shrinks into a narrow tongue, barely touching the glass.
The light that remains feels more like memory and fire.
The rain gives a final hush and stops completely. The
silence that follows is not empty. It is full of
small life, the breath of wood, the hum of cooling metal,
the soft pulse of the clocks continuing in their endless
kind agreement. Mallow climbs the bench brace and pauses half way,
watching the man prepare the room for rest. He sees
each motion carried out with devotion, not obligation. Tools are
placed in straight lines, cloths folded, surfaces cleared of dust
with the sweep of a careful hand. There is no
noise sharper than a heart beat. The air smells of
clean wood and faint smoke. Mister Alden extinguishes the first lamp,
then the second. Only one remains by the tall clock.
He lowers its flame to a soft gold, the colour
of safety. The light touches his hands, his shirt, the
grain of the floor, then fades toward the wall. He
looks around once more, then nods. Everything is as it
should be. He walks to the door, turns the sign
to its night side, and leaves the key on the
shelf beside it. He stands for a moment, hand on
the knob and listens. The rhythm inside the room continues,
steady and sure. He leaves the door unlocked. There is
nothing here that needs guarding. He steps back and sits
once more, his shoulders easing into stillness. Mallow returns to
his drawer and curls into the soft fold of wool.
The material holds the warmth of the day, faint but kind.
He circles once, then twice, until the shape feels right.
His eyes half close, the beats around him merge into
one slow lullaby. He imagines the pendulum of the tall
clock as the breath of the room, Drawing in the dark,
exhaling calm light. Finch dreams above the window. The man
breathes quietly in his chair. The mouse breathes from his nest.
Between them, the sound of ticking fills the space where
words would otherwise go. It is the simplest music, and
it is enough. Outside, the street gathers mist. A cat
steps over a puddle and disappears between fences. A lamp
light flickers and goes still somewhere far off. A train
hums through the valley. It sounds so low it could
be a thought. The night accepts it all and keeps
its shape. Inside the workshop glows faintly from within, as
if the clocks themselves were tiny lanterns. The rhythm they
keep is steady, protective, alive. The old walnut case holds
its heart again. The tall clock watches over the moor.
The air is warm and still. Mister Olden closes his eyes.
His breath matches the clocks. Mallow's small heartbeat finds the
same rhythm. Finch lifts his head once, then rests it
under his wing. The room becomes one long, slow inhale
that never needs to end. Time, gentle and faithful continues
its quiet work. It holds the people and the small
lives that trust it. It keeps the night soft, the
air safe, and the silence deep. Morning will come when
it is ready. For now, there is nothing to do
but rest.
Speaker 2: U u u u u u u u u u
u u u u u u u u u u
u u.
Speaker 1: U u.
Speaker 2: U u.
Speaker 1: U u.
Speaker 2: U u u u u u u u u u
u u u u u u anything u u u
u u u u u u u u u u
u