Kellan and the Song Clock

Kellan woke to the steady, patient tick of a thousand tiny gears. The sound lived in the floorboards of the flat above his father's shop and in the hollow of his own palms. Lantern Lane smelled of oil and lemon peel, of sea salt carried on the morning wind, and of the warm dough cooling at Mrs. Hobb's bakery two doors down. Kellan padded barefoot to the window and watched the square below. The Song Clock stood in its iron cage at the market's center, its face scalloped like a sea shell and its hands painted the color of old brass. At the top of every hour, the clock lifted its little bronze chest and sang a tune that set the town's pace — a bright note that made bakers pull loaves from ovens on time and made market boys whistle as they ran.

Kellan loved things that fit like puzzle pieces. He loved screws the size of pebbles and springs that could hold a whisper. His favorite was a tiny wooden music box, no bigger than his palm, with a carved bird under its lid. His grandmother had left it to him on a rainy afternoon, saying, 'Keep listening, little mender.' He wound the key now with his thumb until the bird squeaked awake and a thin, silver ribbon of song threaded out across the flat. It was a small sound, but it steadied him, the way the tick of a heart steadies a frightened frog.

'You're early,' said a voice below. Kellan peered over the sill. Zara was balancing a stack of folded paper boats in one hand and a satchel of painted pebbles in the other. Her hair was tied back with a blue ribbon that matched her eyes. Zara ran up the lane two steps at a time and burst into the shop, leaving a trail of sea-salty air and chatter.

'You're late,' she said, because in the mornings everyone pretended to be on the clock. 'Did you hear? Old Marn says the tide brought a glass bottle full of something odd.'

Kellan set the music box on a mat of soft cloth and straightened a loose cog. The shop smelled like history: leather-bound ledgers, brass polishing paste, and the faint tang of old letters. Around them, clocks of every stripe and size swung and breathed. A cuckoo peer out of its doorway, winked, then retreated. A pocket watch hung like a tiny moon. Kellan and Zara worked in a companionable hush, hands busy and mouths trading small news. Outside, the Song Clock chimed the quarter hour and a bright, clear note leapt from it and drifted through the open window like a bird startled into flight.