Sarada Matia

Honorable Mention: Fiction

“Time Will Tell” 
by Sarada Matia
12th grade, Chatham High School

—

The old watchmaker despised digital clocks

Not because they were inaccurate—quite the opposite. They were too perfect. Cold numbers changing without hesitation, each second replacing the last without leaving so much as an echo behind.

A proper clock breathed.

Every morning, before the sun had warmed the frost from the windows of his little shop, Edwin unlocked the oak door and wound every clock by hand. Grandfather clocks groaned awake while pocket watches and carriage clocks answered with softer clicks. Then they all began together.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

Not perfectly synchronized. They never were. Each drifted by a fraction of a second, weaving a tapestry of tiny imperfections that filled the room like rainfall. Edwin preferred it that way. People often asked why he never retired. He would simply smile.

“Someone’s got to keep time company.”

Near the back of the shop sat a peculiar clock unlike the others. It had no numbers. No hands. Only an enormous brass ring surrounding a polished disk of black glass.

“What time does that one tell?”

“It doesn’t.”

Then Edwin would change the subject.

One rainy afternoon, a boy wandered into the shop while waiting for the storm to pass. He looked no older than twelve. His shoes were soaked through, leaving circles of water across the wooden floor.

“Sorry,” the boy muttered.

“It’ll dry.”

The boy wandered between shelves, listening to the chorus of ticking.

“It sounds alive.”

Edwin looked up from repairing a pocket watch.

“Depends on who’s listening.”

The boy’s attention drifted toward the strange clock in the corner.

“What’s that one?”

Edwin set down his tools with unusual care and walked toward the brass ring.

“That one’s different.”

“How?”

“It measures circles.”

“…Time goes in circles?”

“No.” Edwin rested a finger against the brass. “People do.” Rain drummed softly against the windows.

“What does that mean?” the boy asked.

“You’ve heard people say history repeats itself.”

The boy nodded.

“They’re wrong.”

Edwin tapped the brass ring.

“History doesn’t repeat. It returns.”

From beneath the counter he retrieved a weathered notebook. Inside were page after page of circles, some traced so many times they had nearly worn through the paper.

“And you drew all these?”

“I didn’t.”

“Who did?”

“The people who owned the shop before me.”

“There were others?”

“Twelve.”

“And they all drew circles?”

“They all eventually understood.”

The ticking had grown strangely distant.

The boy looked back toward the brass ring. It seemed larger now.

“Can I touch it?”

Edwin hesitated.

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because everyone who has wanted to…” He stopped. “…already has.”

The boy stepped closer. The polished glass reflected him perfectly. Except his reflection wasn’t moving quite right.

He raised a hand.

The reflection waited.

Only then did it raise its own.

The boy stumbled backward.

“Did you see that?”

“I did. It always starts that way.”

“I don’t like this.”

“You shouldn’t.”

The reflection smiled. The real boy hadn’t. Every clock in the shop stopped at once. The silence struck harder than any sound could have. From somewhere inside the brass ring came a faint scraping.

Round.

And round.

And round.

The reflection pressed its palm against the glass. A perfect circle bloomed beneath it, like warm skin against a cold window. Then another hand appeared. Then another, until large, small, wrinkled, and scarred palms crowded the glass, each leaving circles that spread across the black surface like ripples on still water. The boy backed into a shelf. A carriage clock crashed to the floor. Neither of them looked away.

“They’re still there,” Edwin whispered.

“Who?”

“The ones who couldn’t stop looking.”

The boy tore his eyes from the glass.

“What is this thing?”

Edwin smiled sadly.

“I’ve spent forty-three years trying to answer that.”

He looked at his own hands.

“They say life moves forward.” He shook his head. “I’ve never believed it.”

The scraping grew louder.

The circles beneath the hands widened, each swallowing the last. Circle inside circle. Memory inside memory. Mistake inside mistake.

Nothing ended. Everything returned. Edwin stepped toward the brass ring.

“I think…” His voice barely rose above a whisper. “…it’s hungry.”

“For what?”

He laughed quietly.

“For another circle.”

Before the boy could stop him, Edwin placed both palms against the glass. The countless hands answered at once, wrapping gently around his wrists, his arms, and finally his shoulders.

They did not pull; they just welcomed. Like old friends greeting someone who had simply been gone for too long. Edwin closed his eyes.

“I always wondered whether I’d leave this place.”

The glass rippled beneath his fingertips.

“I suppose I was mistaken.”

His body folded silently into the black surface, as though he had always belonged there.

One by one, the clocks resumed their ticking. The rain had stopped, and sunlight filled the shop as though nothing unusual had happened. Nothing remained of Edwin except the notebook resting upon the counter. The boy picked it up. Twelve names had been written inside, and now there were thirteen. The final name was Edwin’s.

The ink was still wet, and beneath it waited a blank page. Without understanding why, the boy reached for the pencil lying beside the book. His hand moved almost on its own, tracing a slow, familiar motion.

Round.

And round.

And round.

When he finally stopped, a single perfect circle stared back at him.

Outside, the church bell rang the hour. Inside, the clocks settled once again into their imperfect rhythm, as though they had been waiting all along for someone new to keep time company.