Chapter 7: The Edge of the Clock

He sat alone in the fading light, the key warm in his hand. Brass smoothed beneath his thumb, glinting faint as the sun slipped behind the roofs. Shadows stretched through the shop’s glass, long across the floor. The antique clock rested open on a stool before him, gears bared like a heart unstitched. Dust dulled each spring and cog—relics of stilled hands. His shirt was creased from the morning’s fight with a broken chime. The vest hung over the counter, its patches catching the last gold in a map of mends stitched by quiet years.

The shelves drank the last of the light. Dust drifted like ash.

Lira’s sketches sat stacked near the door—pendulums, gears, inked in her hand. Their edges curled from yesterday’s damp. The echo of her pencil pulsed still through the shop, a memory threaded with rain.

Old scents lingered—oil, wax, years folded into dust. Stillness thickened as day slipped to hush. The clocks beat off-rhythm—some steady, others faltering. He no longer counted.

He was tired. Not in the body—but somewhere deeper. The kind of weariness that comes from pulling at something too long, too hard. From silence pretending not to be absence.

He turned the key in his palm, felt its edge bite—their secret stretched from minutes into hours. He needed its reach now, alone. Her laugh was too quiet in his ears.

He slotted it into the clock. Braced his hands. Turned it twice.

A sharp creak split the silence. Time stuttered.

The shop jolted—sharp, sudden.

Dawn lit the panes cold and bright. The chime sat untouched. Wires coiled tight. His shirt hung smooth, sleep-fresh. The key in his grip had cooled.

He exhaled.

His breath fogged the morning air. The quiet felt heavier without her spark.

He crossed to the counter, boots thudding softly. The vest draped there, patches stark against the grain. Dust unsettled in the pale light. He turned the key in his fingers, slow. Its weight burned like a question he couldn’t yet ask without her.

The door creaked.

Her shadow spilled long across the boards.

She stepped in—scarf loose, blouse low, morning warmth still clinging to her. Her dress bore a charcoal smear. A sketch clutched in one hand. Her hair was loose, dark strands tumbling down to brush her shoulders.

She stopped. Narrowed her eyes.

“You’re quiet,” she said.

She crossed to him. Her blouse shifted in the light, baring a line of skin at her throat. He looked up. The key pressed into his palm.

“Pushing it,” he said.

His voice was rough.

She tilted her head, gaze sweeping from the clock to him.

“Hours?” she said. “Greedy now.”

A spark lit her voice.

She stepped closer. The fabric of her blouse brushed his sleeve. Graphite and morning grass clung to her. Her nearness slipped warm through his shirt.

He handed her the key. His fingers grazed hers—heat cracked his silence. He held it for a breath, then let go.

She moved fast. Despite the morning’s chill, her fingers stayed sure. The key clicked into place. She turned it twice.

The air snapped. Loud.

Time jolted.

Dawn returned—the light bright again. Her scarf hugged her neck, blouse buttoned neat.

But the shop stood thick with their knowing.

She stepped close. Pressed a hand to his chest, fingers firm.

“Hours,” she murmured.