Chapter 4: Held in the Hinge

Afternoon light poured through the open door, golden and slow. A breeze slipped in—warm, edged with grass and chimney smoke, faint from somewhere down the lane. Lira leaned against the bench, a cloth in hand, idly tracing the curve of a gear. Clocks crowded the shelves behind her. Some ticked steady, others lay silent, their faces catching the light as the day softened toward evening.

Across the room, he knelt at a lower shelf, a wrench cool in his fingers. His was shirt crushed from crouching, the fabric no longer smooth; the vest lay slung over the counter, its frayed edge catching motes of dust that drifted through the sunlit air. Her scarf sat coiled on a stool nearby, untouched since noon. When she moved, her dress shifted just enough to reveal a graphite smear on the sleeve—evidence of the morning’s sketch, pendulum arcs drawn before the heat peeled her coat away.

The shop buzzed with quiet life.

Metal rasped faintly as he tightened a baseplate, then glanced up. On the bench, the antique clock stood still, the key gleaming beside it like a promise waiting to be broken again.

“Needs tightening,” he said, voice low.

She paused, crossed the floor. Her boots tapped lightly on the boards. Tilting her head, she eyed the mechanism with practiced ease.

“Old as the hills,” she said, tapping the clock—though her glance slid sideways, lingering just a beat too long.

She set the cloth down beside her—its weave stained with oil, folded into the shape of use.

He snorted—a rare, sharp sound—and rose. His hands brushed dust from his knees as he steadied the clock between them, its brass warm from touch.

Quick as a thought, she reached for the key. Her fingers closed around it. It clicked into the slot, confident and clean.

“Let’s see,” she murmured.

She turned it once.

The air shifted—light, bright. Time snapped.

She stood again with the cloth in hand; he knelt at the shelf. The wrench chilled his palm.

Her laughter rang through the shop—clear, sudden, delighted.

She stepped toward him. Her dress brushed his shoulder as she leaned down, loose strands of hair grazing his arm.

“Old as you, maybe,” she said, voice dipping low, her smile bold beneath the flicker of light.

He looked up, a half-smile tugging at his mouth—unguarded for a breath.

“Older than your chatter,” he replied, dry.

But his eyes held hers. And something sparked.

She turned the key again. The snap cracked louder this time.

Time reset.

She stood once more beside him, her teasing still hanging like a thread in the air.

“You hear me, though,” she said.

Soft now.

She knelt beside him. Her hand brushed his wrist—adjusting the clock’s base with a touch too deliberate to be only mechanical. The jolt ran up his arm, quiet and steady, a warmth threading through his stillness.

He steadied the clock. Their fingers overlapped briefly. He didn’t pull away.

“Half an hour next?” she asked.

Her tone tilted toward curiosity. She slotted the key again. It clicked.

She paused—twirled it halfway, then stopped.

The air vibrated. A hum ran through the walls. The clocks on the shelves ticked slower now—just enough to notice.

“Fifteen’s enough,” he said.

His voice was rougher than before.

He reached for the key. Its warmth sank into his palm.

She rose. A flush touched her cheeks. Boots whispered across the floor.

“Marks the time,” she said, her voice low. “Every loop feels different.”

Soft again. Wonder in her tone.

She looked at him just a moment longer than needed. The clocks behind her ticked unevenly, like breath gone slightly out of rhythm. Dust swirled in the light between them.

She crossed to the counter. From her pocket, she drew a small apple—red, speckled, taut with summer.

“For the dust,” she said.

She offered it out.

He reached to take it, and their fingers brushed—brief, electric. Heat bloomed again.

He bit into it—crisp, tart, bright. Juice slid over his lip. He wiped it with his sleeve, rough against his skin. Her back was to him as she dusted the shelves. Graphite streaked her sleeve. Her dress pulled taut across her back as she stretched high.

Turning to him again, she paused, frowning faintly at a sketch she hadn’t remembered placing on the bench. A gear assembly, finely shaded.

He glanced over. “Did you just draw that?”

She shook her head slowly. “No. It’s dated last week.”

He raised a brow. “Maybe it turned up during the loop?”

Her frown lingered. “Maybe,” she said. But her voice had cooled slightly. She slid the page beneath the others without another word.

“Enough talk,” he said. His voice steadied with a deliberate bite while the tartness grounded him against her nearness.His voice steadied. A deliberate edge.

She glanced back. A smile curved her lips—quiet, teasing, knowing.

The breeze turned cooler, tugged at the open door. The latch rattled gently. He set the apple on the counter’s edge—half-eaten. Its scent mingled with oil, wood, and light.

She wiped a clock’s face with care, her fingers tracing its curve like redrawing something once known.

He watched her.

The key pressed in his pocket. He felt its weight with each breath, a question still waiting.

“Keeps it running,” she said, practical now.

But her eyes flicked to his. A spark beneath the calm.

He grunted—faint assent—and stood.

Dust slipped from his hands.

She folded the cloth over her arm. Moved toward the door.

“Keep yourself steady,” she said, a lilt in her voice as she stepped into the light.

The door creaked shut behind her.

Her scarf remained, coiled on the stool like a whisper of presence.

He stood alone.

The apple’s tartness lingered on his tongue. So did her laugh. Her touch.

Unreset. Unforgotten.

The shop fell quiet. Clocks ticked unevenly, their rhythm a little wrong.

He leaned against the counter. Ran his fingers along the wrench’s cool edge.

Outside, the breeze stirred softly at the glass.

He pocketed the key.

Tomorrow would come.

Perhaps with her.

And the promise it carried.