The Clockmaker's Lullaby

Morning gathered in the watch shop like steam on glass. A single lamp buzzed above Mira’s bench, its cone of light catching a milky halo in the air. Brass dust lay on everything—the velvet mat, the tip of her finger, the curl of hair that kept slipping from her bun. She held a tweezers steady, breathing through her nose, and felt the steady animal weight of time in the half-dissembled pocket watch under her loupe. The tooth that had worried her was, finally, clean. When the escapement clicked, the sound was so soft and sharp it made the skin on her arms lift.

Outside, the river sent up a breeze that smelled of algae and the distant sweetness of bakeries. Streetcar bells fussed at a crossing. Over all of it, like a slow lung, the city’s clock tower inhaled. Eleven strokes rolled across roofs and courtyards, echoing in store windows, in the enamel bowl of the shop sink. Mira exhaled with the final chime and set the watch down.

‘You listen before you look,’ Szymon said. He had appeared beside her without speaking, the way cats do when they decide to become part of a moment. His mustache, gray and neat, twitched as he smiled. ‘That’s rare in people who fix things.’

‘You taught me.’ Mira took off the loupe and rubbed the bridge of her nose. Her thumb left a crescent of oil on her cheek, and he reached to wipe it with a square of linen. ‘I heard the tooth catching. The rest was only patience.’

‘Patience is the hardest gear to cut,’ he said. His left hand trembled as he lifted the watch, not a dramatic tremor, but the fine shake of age or old illness. He pretended not to notice and put the watch to his ear. ‘Good. It will forgive its owner for dropping it.’

Jakub bounced in, late morning light in his hair and his skateboard tucked under his arm. ‘Sister, you promised to watch me try the new trick,’ he said, stopping when he saw Szymon. ‘Oh. Sorry, Mr. Szymon.’

‘Show me after you sweep,’ Mira said, wagging the brush at him. ‘And do not ride in here.’

He groaned theatrically and took the brush anyway. A flyer whisked under the door when he opened it to grab the broom. He bent, read the bold letters, and whistled. ‘Glass Harbor plan. They’re putting them on every pole now.’ He handed her the paper like it might bite.

A rendering ran along the top: smooth glass towers like ice cubes by the river, people in beige coats looking at their phones. At the edge of the image, the clock tower was gone, replaced with a plaza labeled ‘Time Square.’ She felt her stomach tighten, not fear exactly, but a heat behind her ribs that made her arms feel suddenly light.

‘Posters aren’t decisions,’ Szymon said. He folded the flyer once, twice, as if he might fit it into a place too small for it to live. ‘The council will talk, the mayor will make faces, and the clock will keep time until it must be kept by someone braver or more foolish than us. Hand me the mainspring grease.’

Mira reached for the small pot with the blue lid. ‘The Founders’ Day is next week. They wouldn’t announce something like this now unless they were sure.’

Szymon grimaced. ‘People do strange things to feel important in a room.’ He set the watch aside and glanced at the window. The tower rose there like an old captain’s finger, pointing into the sky that had bleached through years of winters. ‘Take the new weights to Irena. She said the chime is lagging by three seconds at noon.’

‘I’ll go after lunch.’ Mira stuffed the flyer into the bin and felt foolish for how relieved that small gesture made her. Jakub was already sweeping like a boy who wanted to be outside before the broom finished a full breath, and the bell above the door greeted a customer. The day slid forward with the quiet insistence of gears.