The Clockmaker’s Visitor

The clock on Iona’s workbench lost one minute every time its owner told a lie. By noon it was yesterday.

‘I bought it at a market,’ the woman said. The hands moved backward.

‘Try again,’ Iona said.

The woman looked at the shelves of patient clocks. ‘My mother left it to me. I was supposed to bring it here years ago.’

This time the hands stayed still. Beneath the case, Iona found the maker’s mark of her own teacher and a folded instruction: Give the owner one honest hour.

They sat in the workshop while the town went about its afternoon. The visitor said her name was Wren. She admitted that she was afraid of starting over, that she missed the sea, and that she had nearly turned away at the door.

Iona admitted that the shop felt too quiet after sunset. She had been telling herself she preferred it that way.

At the end of the hour, the clock struck once. Its hands returned to the correct time.

‘Is it repaired?’ Wren asked.

‘Perhaps it never was broken.’

Wren put the clock in her bag. At the door she turned back. ‘Would you like to see the sea?’

Iona took down the sign that said Closed and put up the one that said Back Tomorrow.