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Fantasy Short Story: The Clockmaker Who Mends Time

🇰🇷KO🇺🇸EN🇯🇵JA
Split View필사 모드
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The Alley Where Clocks Gather

If you walked far past the edge of the village, along an old stone wall, you came upon a narrow alley. At the end of that alley stood a small clock shop. People called it the house that mends time.

The alley was dim even at midday. The stone walls on either side were furred with moss and tinged a faint blue-green, and the round cobbles underfoot had been worn smooth by the footsteps of long years. Somewhere water dripped, and at the edge of an eave a single dry blade of grass trembled though there was no wind.

When you stepped into that alley, everyone felt one thing first. Sound. Before you had even opened the door of the shop, a faint ticking seeped out and filled the whole passage. It was as if the alley itself were one great heart, beating slowly somewhere out of sight.

Above the worn wooden door hung a sign shaped like a round pendulum clock. Once you stepped inside, ticking came at you from every direction at once.

On the walls, on the shelves, on the ceiling, all manner of clocks crowded together. From pocket watches the size of a palm to pendulum clocks as tall as a person, countless clocks marked time, each to its own beat.

Some clocks ticked fast, some slow. Yet all those countless rhythms wove together into one great chorus that, strangely, never fell out of time. There were small clocks sealed inside glass bottles, too. Within those lamp-like bottles, tiny gears turned slowly and glinted as they caught the light.

The owner of that shop was an old clockmaker. None of the villagers could remember when he had first come to be there. Some said he had stood in that spot since their grandfather's grandfather's day.

People whispered. That clockmaker does not merely mend clocks, they said. He mends time itself.

That day, a woman entered the alley. Her name was Harin. In her hand she held an old wristwatch that had stopped.

The Stopped Watch

"Can you mend this watch?" Harin asked, holding it out to the clockmaker.

The clockmaker set a thick loupe to his eye and peered into the watch. He studied it a long while, then slowly lifted his head.

"This watch stopped, long ago," he said. "Not because the spring broke. It seems someone stopped it on purpose."

Harin's face stiffened. "That is right. This was my mother's watch."

She paused, drawing a breath as if to gather her words.

"On the day she passed away, it stopped at that hour. Since that day, I have never once wound it."

The clockmaker nodded quietly. He set the watch upon his palm and gazed at it a long while, as one gazes at the face of an old friend.

"A watch, you see," he said softly, "comes to resemble its owner. Worn long enough, a watch takes the imprint of a person's habits, and even of their heart. This watch has stopped with sorrow imprinted upon it."

Then he said something unexpected.

"I can mend it. Only, this is a slightly different sort of clock shop. There is something I wish to ask. Do you wish for this watch to run again? Or do you wish to return to the very hour at which it stopped?"

Harin held her breath. "What, what do you mean?"

"Just as I said," the clockmaker smiled gently. "In this shop, time stopped by regret can be turned back for a little while. Only once, and only for a very brief moment."

A Certain Customer's Clock

When Harin could not bring herself to answer at once, the clockmaker walked slowly to one side of the shelves. There a small table clock stood apart from the others, set a little way off on its own.

"This clock," he said, lifting it for her to see, "was left here long ago by a fisherman."

A thin crack ran across the glass of its face. Yet within, the second hand turned soundly, busily on.

"That fisherman had a son," the clockmaker went on. "One day the two quarreled bitterly over some small thing. In his anger, the father flung out cruel words, as though he would never look upon his son again. And that night the son set out for distant waters. He did not come back."

Harin gazed quietly at the clock.

"The fisherman came to me with this clock. He wished to return to that night and take back his cruel words. I sent him to that night."

"And did he take them back?" Harin asked.

"No," the clockmaker shook his head. "Here, nothing can be changed. He only returned to that night and saw what he had failed to see before. How his son, before stepping out the door, had paused a moment and quietly hung his father's coat upon the latch. Worried, even then, that his father might catch a chill going out upon the cold sea."

The clockmaker set the clock back in its place.

"The fisherman returned and wept for a long while. Then he said this: We spoke cruel words to each other, but what flowed beneath them, all along, was love. After that day, he was no longer bound to that night."

"But the crack in the clock," Harin said softly. "It has not gone away."

"No," the clockmaker smiled. "The crack remains. What is broken cannot be made as though it never broke. Yet even with that crack across it, the clock ticks on and keeps good time. To mend a regret is not to erase the scar, but to walk on while carrying it."

The Clockmaker's Offer

Harin stared at the clockmaker as though she could not believe him. Yet listening to the countless clocks of the shop ticking all at once, somehow it seemed his words might be true.

"If it can be turned back," Harin's voice trembled. "I want to return to that day, the day my mother passed away."

She closed both hands tightly around the watch.

"On that day, I was not at her side. Work was busy, and I put it off, telling myself I would go next time. But that night, my mother left us. I could not even say a last farewell. For ten years that has tormented me."

"Ten years," the clockmaker murmured. "A very long time. To stand still for."

Harin bowed her head.

"Every night I dream the same dream. I walk as far as my mother's door, then turn away without being able to open it. The moment I lay my hand on the handle, I always wake. For ten years, I have never once been able to open that door."

The clockmaker looked at her for a long while. In his eyes was a deep compassion.

"I will send you to that time," he said. "But there is one thing I must tell you beforehand."

He lowered his voice a little.

"Even if I turn back time, you can change nothing within it. You can only live that moment once more. As though gazing again at river water that has already flowed past. You may dip your hand into the water, but you cannot turn its current back."

"If I cannot change it, what use is it?" Harin asked.

The clockmaker smiled quietly. "That, you may answer after you have been there. It will not be too late."

My Mother's Kitchen

Before the clockmaker led her to the largest pendulum clock, Harin closed her eyes for a moment. When she tried to call her mother to mind, what rose first was always the kitchen.

In the early morning, warm steam always lifted from the kitchen. Her mother would set white rice to cook in a small pot, and slice radish in thick chunks to add atop it. The sound of the knife meeting the board, the smell of soup bubbling, the morning light slanting in through the window.

Little Harin would sit with her chin propped on the corner of the table, watching all of it. Her mother's back looked broad and strong. When her mother hummed under her breath, the whole little kitchen seemed to sway along with her.

"Harin, go wash your hands," her mother would say without even turning around. How had she known? That Harin was secretly peering into the kitchen.

It was one winter. Harin lay ill with a fever for several days. That night, her mother sat at Harin's bedside and laid a cool cloth upon her brow. Half-asleep, Harin felt her mother's hand smoothing back her hair. That touch was rough, yet more tender than anything else in the world.

That was the shape love took, in Harin's memory. Not grand words, but the steam of dawn, a warm cloth, a heart that knew without turning to look.

Harin opened her eyes. All those memories had lain submerged together within the watch that had stood still for ten years.

"Are you ready?" the clockmaker asked.

Harin slowly nodded.

Time Turned Back

The clockmaker led Harin before the largest pendulum clock. An old clock of black wood, well taller than a person.

Its pendulum swung slowly, heavily from side to side. There was something in that swing that resembled a person's breathing. The clockmaker opened a small door in the clock's back and began to wind the spring within it in reverse.

Tick, tick, tick.

The sound of the clock grew slower and slower, and then began to flow backward. The ticking ran in reverse, the light of the shop wavered, and Harin felt dizzy.

The other clocks in the room began, one by one, to turn backward too. Second hands slid in reverse, and the gears within the glass bottles spun the other way. The sounds of the alley, the light, the very air, all flowed backward.

When she closed her eyes and opened them again, she was no longer in the clock shop.

It was a familiar room. Her mother's room. Beyond the window shone the sunlight of ten years ago.

The air carried a familiar smell. The scent of medicine, faintly mingled with the camellia hair oil her mother had always used. On the small table by the bedside stood a glass of water, half drunk.

And on the bed lay her mother.

"Mother," Harin called, without meaning to.

Her mother slowly opened her eyes. Yet her mother's eyes seemed both to see Harin and not to see her.

The clockmaker had been right. She could not change this moment. She could only live it once more.

Harin wanted to reach out and take her mother's hand. But her hand passed straight through her mother's, like a shadow cast on water. Here she was no more than an onlooker.

But just then, Harin saw something she had not seen ten years ago.

What She Had Not Seen

In the room, her mother was not alone. Beside her mother's bed, on the small table, lay a single letter. On the envelope, in her mother's hand, was written Harin's name.

Ten years ago, Harin had not seen that letter. After her mother passed, sunk in grief, she had left without even properly tidying her mother's room. And so the letter had vanished somewhere, along with the other belongings.

With trembling hands, Harin picked up the letter. Strangely, the letter alone yielded to her touch. As though her mother had left it so that this, and this alone, might reach her daughter.

The envelope had the soft feel particular to old paper. When she opened it, her mother's tidy handwriting met her eyes.

To my beloved Harin.

When I heard you were too busy to come, at first I felt a little hurt. But soon I changed my heart. My daughter is living her own life with all her might, I thought. What a fine thing that is.

I am not sad that you did not come, but glad that you are living happily. The day you first took your steps, the sight of your back as you let go of my hand and walked off on your own, I can still see it clearly. A mother's task is not to hold her child fast, but to let go of her hand so the child can walk far away.

In case you should one day take it to heart that you could not come that day, I leave this letter. Do not feel sorry. You have never, not once, disappointed me.

You yourself have been my greatest joy. Please do not grieve too long, but smile again. When you smile, wherever I am, I will smile along with you.

Harin clutched the letter to her chest and wept. The weight that had pressed upon her for ten years seemed, within those words, to slowly come loose.

All at once she understood. That her mother, to the very last, had not resented her but worried over her. That what had waited for her beyond that door was not reproach, but forgiveness.

Her mother upon the bed seemed, for just an instant, to wear the faintest smile at the corner of her lips. Whether it was real, or made by Harin's own longing, she could not tell.

Back to the Clock Shop

When she opened her eyes again, Harin had returned to the clock shop. Her hands held nothing. The letter would remain in that room of ten years ago, in its place. Yet its words were now graven upon her heart.

The clockmaker was watching her quietly.

"You have seen it," he said.

Harin nodded, wiping her tears. "I saw my mother's letter. For ten years, I did not even know it was there."

Her voice caught.

"My mother, she did not resent me. She wished, instead, for me to be happy. For ten years, I conjured a resentment that was never there, and stood trembling before it all alone."

"Time cannot be changed," said the clockmaker. "But sometimes, what we must change is not time, but our own heart that gazes upon that time."

Only then did Harin understand the clockmaker's words. For ten years, she had wished to change that day. Yet what she had truly needed was not to change that day, but to look upon it rightly.

"Even if I had gone to my mother's side that day," Harin said slowly. "My mother would have loved me just the same. I thought it was my fault that I could not go, but my mother never thought so for a moment. The one who regretted, was only me."

"Such is the nature of regret," the clockmaker nodded. "Regret is what arises when love has lost its way to go. That you regretted so long means only that you loved that deeply. It is nothing to be ashamed of."

At those words, Harin felt something she had borne for so long give way at last.

The Stopped Watch Flows Again

Harin held out her mother's wristwatch to the clockmaker. "Now, please make this watch run again."

The clockmaker smiled and took the watch. With a small tool he opened its back, and carefully rejoined the spring that had seemed broken.

"Look," he said softly. "The spring was not broken. It had only stopped too firmly. Like a person's heart."

Then he slowly began to wind it.

Tick.

The watch that had stood still for so long began to move again. The small second hand advanced, slowly but surely, one notch at a time. For the first time in ten years, that watch was marking time again.

The sound was small, yet it rang out clearly even among the countless clocks that filled the shop. As though someone who had long kept silent had at last opened their mouth to speak.

"From now," the clockmaker said, returning the watch, "this watch will flow not from the hour your mother left, but from this hour, when you met your mother again. Not as a watch of sorrow, but as a watch of love."

Harin fastened the watch to her wrist. The small ticking felt as near as her mother's own heartbeat.

The weight of the watch against her wrist was warm. It was no longer the weight of stopped time, but the weight of time that flows on alongside her.

Leaving the Alley

Harin bowed deeply to the clockmaker. "How am I to pay you?"

The clockmaker waved his hand. "No payment is needed. The work of this shop is only to make stopped time flow again. If you have come to be able to smile once more, that is enough."

Harin looked around the shop one last time. The clocks filling the walls and shelves and ceiling ticked on, each to its own beat. It occurred to her, all at once, that every single one of those countless clocks might once have been someone's stopped heart.

"Are all these clocks," she asked, "from the people who came to you?"

The clockmaker only smiled, and did not answer.

Harin left the clock shop. The alley had already taken on the colors of the evening glow. The stone walls held the red light and looked warm, and her shadow stretched long across the alley.

She gazed quietly at the watch on her wrist. The second hand still ticked, moving forward.

Suddenly she looked back. But the clock shop that had stood at the end of the alley was nowhere to be seen. As though it had never been there at all, only the old stone wall stood quietly.

The ticking that had filled the air could be heard no longer. The alley was still. Yet that stillness was not an empty stillness, but the peaceful stillness that comes after something has been brought to a close.

Harin smiled. She knew there was no longer any need to find that clock shop. For her mother's love had stood, unchanged, in that place ten years ago, and now, and would forever after.

Listening to the ticking of the watch on her wrist, she walked slowly out of the glowing alley. The time that had stopped within her now began, again, to flow.

On her way home, she thought, for the first time in a long while, of the soup her mother used to make for her. This evening, she decided, she would try to make that soup. She could not remember every taste of her mother's cooking, but the warmth of it she remembered still.

A Note from the Author

This story is about a magic that turns back time, yet it is also, in truth, a story about the truth that time cannot be changed. We often wish to return to some moment in the past and set something right. But what we can actually change is, often, not the past, but the present heart that gazes upon it.

Regret is like a stopped clock that binds us to the past. Yet the key to making that clock flow again may lie not in the magic of turning back time, but in discovering the love and forgiveness we had failed to see.

The clockmaker in this story does not erase scars. The crack in the broken glass remains, and the one who has gone does not return. He only sets the stopped clock ticking again, so that we may walk on while carrying that scar. Perhaps true comfort is not the removal of pain, but the gift of strength to live alongside it.

If there is a stopped clock within your heart too, I hope you might one day look tenderly at the hour to which it points. For perhaps, there, a letter you had failed to see may yet be lying.

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