The Clock-Eaters
A short story. The first clock arrived on a Tuesday. Mara found it on her workbench when she opened the shop at seven — which she knew was seven because the grandfather clock by the door chimed it, because she’d calibrated it herself, because she trusted her own hands more than the phone in her pocket. Someone had left it inside the mail slot, wrapped in a dish towel printed with faded lemons. A mantel clock, mahogany case, maybe 1940s. The movement was Swiss, which surprised her. The case was American, which didn’t. People crossed oceans and came home with souvenirs, then the souvenirs crossed more time than anyone intended. ...