In a crooked village lane, the clockmaker’s shop ticked with a rhythm all its own. Every clock on the shelves seemed to beat in unison, as though keeping time with something greater than hours. One rainy evening, a girl stepped inside, clutching a broken watch to her chest. Its hands were frozen, its glass cracked, and her voice shook as she laid it before him. “It stopped the moment my father died,” she whispered. The old man’s eyes softened. He turned the watch in his palm, listening. Then he said quietly, “I cannot give back what is gone…”