“Hello?” a groggy, low voice said.

“Chrissy, I’m sorry to bother you, but I don’t want to sleep.”

A long sigh.

“Miri? It’s two in the morning.”

“I know.” A beat. “Again, I’m sorry.”

“What is going on? Why don’t you want to sleep?” Chrissy asked, her voice rough as she cleared her throat.

“Because I’m afraid to wake up.”

“Miri, that’s the silliest thing I’ve ever heard—”

Miri heard the faint swallow as Chrissy took a sip of water.

“It’s just a dream, Miri. It isn’t real. And for all you know, it might not even happen again.”

“God, that would be even worse.”

The silence that followed was enough; Chrissy could hear Miri trying not to cry.

“Miri, listen to me. I know you’ve been struggling, and I’m really worried about you. I—”

“I know it sounds foolish,” Miri cut in. “I know how it sounds. But it feels so real. More real than—”

She stopped. She knew exactly how it would sound.

“Miri, I’m here for you. You know I am. We’ve known each other since sixth grade. You’re going through a rough time after the divorce. Of course you’re shaken up. But it’s still just a dream.”

“A recurring dream,” Miri said. “Silly, I know.” She swallowed hard.

“Miri, I have work in the morning. You do too. Try to sleep, okay? We’ll talk tomorrow.” Chrissy yawned again.

“Yes. Of course. Talk tomorrow.” Miri sighed.

The line went dead.

Her body had gone stiff, her gaze fixed forward, holding her breath.

Then her eyes caught it.

The small, wrapped box still sat on the side table, a fine layer of dust dulling the ribbon. She had meant to get rid of it months ago. His name was still written on the tag in her own hand. A birthday gift for someone she had never once touched in daylight.

Her breath hitched and she quickly looked away.

Miri rose from the sofa and paced in front of the fireplace. She picked up her glass of white wine spritzer and finished it.

She sat back down on the sofa and picked at the spread— olives, thin almond crackers, a new cranberry cheese she’d bought on a whim at the market. She didn’t feel hungry, but kept eating anyway, barely tasting it, until the plate was empty.

She got up and paced again, then turned every light switch on, the brightness stinging her eyes. She looked up at the clock. A yawn slipped out anyway. 4:05 A.M.

She took a book from the shelf, sank back onto the sofa, and tried to read. The words wouldn’t stay still on the page. She set the book on the coffee table and turned on the TV. Flipping through the channels, she let out a long breath. The repeated press of the button tired her thumb.

A notification reminder on her phone flashed.

She glanced at it— Reminder: German Chocolate.

Her thumb stalled on the volume button, then pushed it higher. She watched the screen without blinking, then switched to a streaming app and found the service discontinued. On another, she found old reruns and sank deeper into the sofa, keeping the volume high.

“I missed you,” he said. “You’re late.”

“I… I—”

Miri looked at him.

He reached for her, and her body gave at once, folding into him. His heartbeat hummed in her ears, while a hard knot pulled low in her body.

She tasted bile.

She tried to pull herself away. But her body was too heavy.

“It’s okay, love. You’re here now. That’s all that matters.” His mouth brushed hers.

She stayed close to him, counting her breaths.

When she finally looked up, he was watching her.

“We don’t have much time.”

Most of my longer work is tied up in the slower, traditional publishing process, so this is my way of sharing something in between. A sneak peek of a larger piece of literary fiction I’m working on. Thank you for reading.

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I hadn’t walked down Ashburn Street in more than ten years, yet my feet remembered it better than I did.

Snow fell in thin, slated sheets, the way it used to in December when I was a child—light enough to sparkle, cold enough to sting. I was only home for the holidays, passing through on my way to the old bakery that still smelled like sweet dough and orange peel.

I told myself I wouldn’t look. That I’d walk past like any normal adult.

But memory has its own gravity.

Instinctively, I turned my head toward the narrow alley beside it. I used to look down that stretch every day, searching for a warm glimmer of light at the far end. But this time, the sight caught me like a punch.

The clockmaker’s shop was boarded shut.

Windows dark.

Hanging lantern broken.

The little brass sign I once adored half-buried in snow.

My heart dropped before I could stop it. My breath fogged in uneven ribbons, the way it always did when something old twisted in my chest.

I wanted to believe the clockmaker wouldn’t matter after all these years.

I was wrong.

For a moment, the boards blurred. The alley tilted backward through time, and the memory rose so sharply it felt like stepping inside it. I was small again, mittened hand in my mother’s, tugged along the morning street. And there, exactly where the ruin now stood, glowed a soft amber light—warm, steady, calling to me even then.

I blinked, and the present snapped back into place.

But the memory had already opened like a door.

* * *

It was just before dawn. Light hadn’t yet touched the frost-muted windows of his bedroom, yet Mr. Ashcroft felt the first snow coming before a single flake had landed.

He rose, the air cool against his nose, the warmth of the bed lingering in his bones. He moved quickly; mornings like this were always short-lived. Rubbing his hands together, he breathed warmth into them as he dressed.

At the hearth, long-extinguished coals glowed faintly. He knelt, added a cedar log, and coaxed the fire alive. Gold light flickered over the room, softening the stiffness in his fingers and waking the old aches in his joints. A quiet smile tugged at him.

He hurried down the wooden stairs into his workshop. Cool morning light spilled across clocks, tools, curls of wood shavings—a lifetime of small, careful work. He crossed to the iron stove, lit it, and reached for the tiny silver bowl on the shelf.

Then he froze.

His heart lurched.

She stared back at him.

Her warm smile.

Her eyes.

A sharp ache climbed into his throat. He blinked it away and glanced at the brass clock beside her picture—its ticking slower than it should be, lagging behind with every passing day. Its polished face reflected his own worn features.

He looked once more at the photo.

“I’ll be back, Sue,” he murmured, barely louder than the crackling hearth.

He shrugged on his wool coat and stepped outside. The air was crisp, touched with that faint, sweet-earth scent he’d waited for all year. The first snow had a smell—always had.

Holding the silver bowl out like an offering, he stood still. Only the distant clink of the lantern-lighters echoed from the street beyond the alley.

He waited.

And then… it began.

A few soft flakes drifted down, landing in the bowl, on his lashes, melting cold against his cheeks. More followed—slow, glowing, the first snow of the year.

A smile widened across his face as the bowl filled. His knees ached, his arms trembled, but he held fast.

It’s here, Sue. And it’s on time this year.

The thought rose warm inside him, as if she were standing beside him in the snow.

Weeks passed after that first snowfall.

The brightness in the air faded; the texture and scent of the flakes changed. Whatever magic lived in those first snowflakes was long gone.

Mr. Ashcroft worked quietly at his bench, patient and precise.

Each clock was a small testament to his understanding of time and the strange power that fueled it. Into everyone he placed two of those precious first flakes, each carrying enough magic to keep a clock running exactly as long as it was needed.

People drifted in and out of the little shop, taking their snow-clocks home and leaving only the soft ticking behind.

This morning was no different. He sat with his glasses low on his nose, hands steady, humming a familiar tune under his breath. He glanced toward the photograph on the shelf.

“This one’s going to be extra special, Sue,” he whispered. “I can feel it. This one’s different… just like—”

His stomach tightened. He looked away from her picture and the clock beside it.

“Just like the one I made you before,” he murmured, the words catching. He shook the thought off and tried to smile. “You’ve never left me, Sue. Of course not. I would never—could never…”

His throat closed. His eyes dropped to the clock in his hands. He knew what he meant, even if he couldn’t say it aloud.

The bell over the door chimed.

Footsteps creaked across the wooden floorboards.

He turned.

A small girl stood there, brown hair in braids, nose red from the cold. Her mittens were crusted with ice. Her bright red coat glowed against the quiet browns of the shop. Her mouth hung open as she looked around, eyes darting from one clock to another.

Then he saw it—

wonder, pure and unguarded.

Her gaze settled on the clock he was making.

She hesitated.

“Hello, sir… can I—?” She stopped, nerves tangling her words. “I’ve never been in here. Momma and I walk past this alley every day and she always says not to come down here.” She swallowed. “Oh, she’ll give me a lickin’ if she finds out I came… but I just had to see.”

She reached toward a tiny clock on the shelf, mitten brushing the edge.

“Child, please don’t touch,” he said—firm, but gentle.

She yanked her hand back. “Sorry, sir.”

He stood and walked to her. Up close, she looked even smaller.

“Do you know what this is?” he asked softly.

She glanced at the clock, then back at him. A shy giggle escaped.

“’Course I do. I’m not a baby like Jimmy. It’s a clock.”

His eyes warmed. “Yes, but these aren’t just any clocks.” He lifted the small one carefully. “These are magic clocks.”

Her eyes flew wide.

“Momma says magic don’t exist. Only in fairy tales,” she said, arms folding in a tiny huff, as if waiting for him to prove her wrong.

He leaned closer and pointed to the back.

“See here? The first snowflakes go inside this chamber. They melt slow and steady, releasing just enough energy to keep the gears moving.”

She stared, breath caught.

“Can I tell you a secret?” he whispered.

Her face lit up.

“Yes, sir! I can keep a secret. My friend Millie trusts me with all her stories. She almost burned down the kitchen once but said it was her brother—I know better.” She leaned in. “See? I can hold a secret.”

He chuckled. “Well then, I believe you.”

Her head bobbed proudly.

“Snow-clocks aren’t built to last,” he said, voice softening. “They’re meant to remind us that time is a gift, not a guarantee.”

“You mean it don’t last forever?”

“Nothing does,” he replied gently.

“But what happens when it stops? How’s that magic?”

“When the last drop melts,” he said, “a small piece of time is returned to whoever carries it.”

She frowned. “That sounds made up.”

Before he could answer, the door burst open.

“There you are!”

Her mother strode in, snow scattering from her boots. “My apologies, Mr. Ashcroft. My daughter can be impulsive.” She grabbed Penny’s arm. “Come now—you’ve bothered this good man enough.”

“Now, now, Mrs. Cosack. She’s been a delight,” he said quietly.

Penny looked back at him over her shoulder, her face a mix of fear, wonder, and longing.

“Yes, well… she knows better,” her mother huffed, dragging her out.

The old man stood still, holding the unfinished clock.

The ticking filled the space she’d left behind.

“Now we’ve found a home for our newest, Sue,” he whispered.

He nodded once, turned, and went back to his table.

* * *

I don’t know what pulls me down the alley—habit, memory, grief—but my feet move before I can think.

The old shop sits at the end like a wounded thing, collapsed in on itself. Boards hang crooked over the windows; the sign is split straight down the middle. My heart aches so sharply it feels like a bruise.

I wipe a layer of grime from the glass. Something inside glints—a thin line of brass catching the weak afternoon light.

Then I hear it.

A faint ticking.

Impossible.

I push the door without thinking. It sighs open with a tired groan. Dust curls through the cold air as I step inside. The room smells of old wood, smoke, and dried varnish. Every floorboard creaks beneath me, as if remembering my footsteps.

The ticking grows louder the farther I go, steady and patient, like a heartbeat untouched by time.

I kneel beside a collapsed shelf and move aside broken boards and cracked picture frames. Underneath, wrapped in brown paper and tied with a silk bow, lies a small package with one word written in careful script:

Penny.

My breath leaves all at once.

I untie the ribbon slowly. Inside is the clock—his clock. The one he was finishing the last day I ever saw him. The snow-born one. Delicate. Familiar. Impossible.

And then the ticking stops.

The hands freeze.

A soft rush fills my mind—sunlight on my childhood street, my mother laughing, my father lifting me onto his shoulders, friends I’d forgotten I ever had. All of it breaks open inside me: bright, painful, beautiful.

Tears blur the room. I press the clock to my chest, holding it tight as if it could anchor me.

A whisper slips out, barely a breath.

“It really is magic… just like Mr. Ashcroft said.”

For those interested, I wrote a short behind-the-scenes note about this piece here.

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Her water glass had been refilled eight times. She checked her phone: 6:42 PM. She sighed.

People came and went under the fluorescent lights, the door making the same obnoxious sound. The waitress passed again.

“More?”

She shook her head. The waitress moved on.

She reached for her backpack and swung it over one shoulder, sliding out of the booth.

In her peripheral vision, she saw him hurrying toward her.

“You’re late”

“I know. I’m so sor—”

“Never mind, I was just leaving”

“Wait—no. I—”

She turned on her heel and headed for the door.

“How about a burger. You hungry?”

She paused and turned.

They looked at each other, eyes lingering.

“You always do this,” she said.

“Do what?”

“Offer food like it fixes something.”

Because if she ate, she might stop being angry, and if she stopped being angry, he could pretend nothing was wrong.

“You’re hungry.”

“I didn’t say I was hungry.”

“You haven’t eaten all day.”

“You don’t know that.”

He shrugged. “I’m trying.”

“At what?”

He took a step toward her.

“Don’t.”

“Don’t what?”

“Don’t make this into—”

“Into what?”

He exhaled. “I can’t do this tonight.”

“You can’t ever. That’s the—” Her voice caught.

She wiped her face with her sleeve, turned her back to him, and walked out. Not looking back, she picked up her pace. The wind numbed her damp face. She didn’t check her phone. She kept walking through slush and powder. Now and then she bumped into someone without looking up. She focused on footfalls, engines, voices. She paused. Her hands were red with cold. She dug through her backpack—wrong gloves. She put them on anyway, rubbing her palms together.

* * *

The night had pressed in early, causing the young girl to stop. She sat beneath it, knees drawn in, her coat buttoned wrong and tattered.

From across the street came the sharp metallic insistence of a bell. She watched the woman stand beside it, her scarf pulled high above her nose, ringing as if the sound itself might redeem her. The girl wondered—briefly, uselessly—who decided which sins were worthy of charity and which were simply endured.

“Miss your bus, darlin’?” an old woman said as she trudged by.

“Someone comin’ to get ya?”

The girl ignored her, turning her head.

“Fine girl, no talk to the likes of me—but you best be getting home. There’s a storm a’ comin’.”

The wind gusted, scattering powdered snow into the air and causing her to shiver.

The bus had long since passed, leaving only a quiet that made the world feel sharper. Behind her, the street was empty, save for shadows slanting across frozen puddles. She pulled out her phone: 8:56 PM. She looked through a few photos from earlier in the day—some selfies of her and her friends, her brother with a spoon on his nose. She wiped her cheek with the back of her hand and put the phone back in her backpack.

She knew it was him before she saw him. The sound was wrong for anyone else—too deliberate, too familiar. The scrape of a shoe against frozen concrete, a pause where a stranger would have hurried through. She kept her eyes on the bell ringer, counting the seconds between the bell’s dull clang.

He stopped a few feet away. Not close. He had always been careful about that, even when he still belonged.

She didn’t turn. If she did, something would shift, and she wasn’t ready for motion. The cold pressed in, sharpening everything—the ache in her fingers, the tightness behind her eyes, the awareness of another body. He smelled faintly of winter and something older, like down that had been worn through seasons instead of years.

She noticed the small things first. The way his hands stayed buried in his pockets, like he was afraid they might reach for something they couldn’t have anymore. He shifted his weight once, then stilled again.

For a moment, she wondered if he would leave without a word. That would be easier. She could have told herself she imagined him, blamed the dark, the cold.

But he stayed.

Somewhere down the street, a car passed too fast, its tires hissing through slush. She felt the old reflex rise in her chest—the habit of listening for what he might say, of preparing herself to answer correctly. She let it fall away. She was tired of rehearsing.

When she finally looked at him, he didn’t smile. That surprised her more than anything. He only nodded once, a small acknowledgment, as if they were strangers.

“Mind if I sit?”

She only responded with a shrug.

“Okay then.”

He sat down next to her, hands in his lap.

She rolled her eyes at the thought of sharing the same bench.

His eyes lingered on her face, then dropped, respectful.

They sat like that for twenty-eight rings of the bell.

She sensed him then and stiffened, keeping her eyes forward.

The man reached into his coat, not hurriedly, not with ceremony and removed a small parcel. It was wrapped plainly, without a ribbon. He held it out.

She glanced at it briefly, then looked away.

“These,” he said at last, his voice low and imperfect, “belong where they are used.”

She looked.

Gloves.

Wool.

Thick.

Practical.

Her hands hesitated. Pride whispered, but the cold answered louder.

She took them. Not looking at him.

As she pulled them on, the warmth came slowly. The man nodded once and gave a small smile. She responded with a brief nod.

Her gaze wandered to the lamplight catching the frost on the shelter’s glass. His shadow merged with hers on the pavement.

He adjusted his scarf, looked at the road ahead, then at her. She felt the weight of the night, heavy with cold, but lighter somehow.

The bell stopped. Jarred, she watched as the bell ringer began to put it away and take down her station. The woman glanced at the girl, giving her a smile and a small nod.

She looked over at the man. Their eyes met for a brief moment of recognition and acknowledgment.

Without a word, they stood and began to walk, slow steps side by side. Each crunch of snow beneath their feet marked time spoken, both understood. The air bit at their cheeks; the wind tossed a stray hair across her face. He brushed it away with a careless hand, and she smiled faintly, without needing to say it aloud.

She didn’t ask what would happen tomorrow. She had learned what that question cost.

The bus stop disappeared behind them. Lights reflected off wet streets, ornaments trembling in the windows of houses they passed. Their footsteps echoed together, small and steady, fading into the night.

If you enjoyed reading, you can buy me a coffee ☕ — a small gesture that helps keep the creative fire burning.

If this piece spoke to you, tap the ❤️ or share it with someone who might need it too. Your quiet support keeps the ink flowing.

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