The clockmakers gift - by Rahima Suleiman

--- The Clockmaker’s Gift In a quiet village tucked between misty hills and whispering woods, there lived an old clockmaker named Elias. He was a quiet man with calloused hands, silver hair, and eyes that ticked like gears—sharp and precise. His shop, Elias & Time, was filled with clocks of every kind: cuckoos, pocket watches, grandfathers, and sundials. Each one sang a different song, and all of them kept perfect time. But Elias harbored a secret. Once every year, on the eve of the first snow, he would build a special clock. Unlike the others, this one never told time. It had no numbers, no hands—only a single, small golden bird perched on a wire that wound through a maze of gears. He called it The Memory Clock. People in the village whispered about Elias’s strange creation. Some said it granted wishes. Others said it brought back the dead. No one knew the truth because Elias never sold these clocks. Instead, he gave them away—quietly, without fanfare—to someone who needed it most. One bitter December, a girl named Liora moved to the village with her mother. They had nothing but a suitcase and silence—her father had died the month before, and her mother hadn’t smiled since. Liora wandered the snowy streets alone until she found Elias’s shop, the warm glow inside calling her like a hearth. Elias welcomed her in. She didn’t speak much, but her eyes lingered on the clocks as if searching for something lost. Elias didn’t ask questions. He let her sit in the corner and listen to the ticking chorus while he worked. On the night of the first snow, Elias handed Liora a box wrapped in soft cloth. “This one is for you,” he said. Inside was a Memory Clock. Liora took it home and set it by her bed. That night, the golden bird stirred. It fluttered gently along its wire track, and as it did, a soft sound filled the room—her father’s laugh. Then a memory bloomed like a snowflake on her pillow: her father dancing with her in the kitchen, flour in his hair, sunlight spilling through the window. Every night, the bird moved again, and a new memory returned: bedtime stories, songs hummed out of tune, the way he said her name. Her mother started to listen too, drawn by the sounds, and slowly, smiles returned to their faces—small ones at first, then full and real. Spring came. Liora visited Elias again, bringing him a small clock she had made from wood and string and love. She didn’t know how to thank him. He only smiled and said, “Time heals, but memory brings us home.”

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