The Clockmaker’s Apprentice

The workshop had always smelled of oil and brass, but after Grandfather Elias died, it reeked of neglect. I was thirteen when I found the letter, tucked behind the pendulum of the great oak clock he’d been restoring. It was addressed to me, in his spidery handwriting, and it read: ‘Elara, if you’re reading this, I’ve left you the key. Do not use it until the night of the blood moon, and only then if you truly wish to see what I’ve seen. The clocks are not just clocks. They keep time, yes, but they also keep secrets. Yours, E.’

I’d spent my whole life in that dusty shop, learning the gentle art of coaxing life back into broken timepieces. Grandfather was a quiet man, with hands that trembled from more than age. He’d tell me stories of the old country, of villages where the church bells rang of their own accord, but never of this. The key was small, iron, and cold, with a strangely shaped bow that looked like a tiny bird in flight. I tucked it into my pocket and forgot about it, too caught up in grief and the mundane tasks of closing the shop.

Months passed. The blood moon arrived in autumn, a swollen copper orb that made the town’s dogs howl and the old women cross themselves. I was alone in the shop, sorting through a box of pocket watches, when the key in my pocket grew warm, then hot. I pulled it out, and it seemed to pulse with a dark light. The great oak clock struck thirteen times, and the glass door of its case swung open, revealing a space where no clockwork should be. Instead, there was a small, hidden compartment, and inside, a strange contraption: a brass sphere covered in ticking gears, with a single red button.

I pressed it. The workshop dissolved into a vortex of swirling shadows and piercing chimes. When I could see again, I was in a vast, circular room filled with hundreds of clocks, all stopped at exactly 11:59. In the center stood a woman, tall and pale, dressed in black, with a face that seemed to shift like smoke. She smiled, but her eyes were hollow. ‘So, Elias’s apprentice,’ she said, her voice like the creak of a coffin lid. ‘He thought he could hide the truth. But time always reveals.’ She gestured to the clocks. ‘Each one is a life. You see, I am the Collector, and I gather moments. When a clock stops, a life ends. Your grandfather was my finest apprentice, but he grew a conscience. Now, you will take his place.’

I wanted to run, but my feet were rooted. She handed me a silver tool, like a miniature key. ‘When the minute hand trembles, you must turn this key in the clock’s back. That is how you collect the moment, the final breath, the unfinished thought. Your first task is simple.’ She pointed to a small, ornate clock with a cherub painted on its face. ‘That one belongs to a little girl named Anna. She’s sick, you see, and her time is almost up. Do it, and I will let you go.’

I shook my head, my heart pounding. ‘No. I won’t do it.’ The Collector’s face twisted into a mask of rage. ‘Then you will stay here, forever, watching the clocks, until you rot.’ She vanished, and the room fell into an eerie silence, broken only by the ticking of dozens of clocks, each ticking closer to midnight. I looked at the cherub clock. The minute hand was beginning to shake. I knew I had to make a choice. But I was just a kid. What could I do?

I remembered Grandfather’s note: ‘Do not use it until the night of the blood moon, and only then if you truly wish to see what I’ve seen.’ I looked at the key in my hand. It was not for the clocks. It was for the great oak clock, the one in the workshop, the one that was a portal. I had to get back, but how? The vortex had taken me here; perhaps the key could take me back. I searched my pockets, but the key was gone. It had been in my hand, but now it was not. In its place was the silver tool she had given me.

Suddenly, the cherub clock’s minute hand stopped its shaking and fell still. A soft chime sounded, and the clock’s face cracked. From the crack, a sliver of light escaped, and I heard a child’s voice whisper, ‘Help me.’ I reached out and touched the crack, and the room spun. I was back in the workshop, standing before the great oak clock, which was now ticking normally. The key was in my hand again, and the silver tool was gone. I looked at the clock’s face, and I saw that the hands now read 12:01, and on the floor, where the hidden compartment had been, lay a small, tarnished locket. I opened it. Inside was a picture of a little girl with blonde curls, and the inscription: ‘Anna, 1887-1900.’

I never spoke of what happened. I closed the shop, moved away, and tried to forget. But sometimes, late at night, I hear a faint ticking from my bedside table, where I keep the locket. And I know the Collector is still there, waiting. The clocks are not just clocks. They keep time, but they also keep secrets. And now, I am one of them.