Roger sighed, his shoulders slumping further. His moustache twitched irritably as his hand tightened on the old suitcase that held all that remained of his life. His cynical gaze followed the dilapidated outline of the old clock shop.

‘Second Hand Repairs’

The letters were worn, the paint peeling at the edges. Beneath it dangled a crooked shingle. ‘Rutherford & Son‘ — the ‘Son’ portion roughly scratched out.

It matched the street view.

One old building slumped into the next, each a solemn tribute to brighter days. But Roger’s critical eye refused to see any charm in the weathered stonework framing their signs. “Can’t get more backward than this,” he muttered to himself.

The dilapidated old clock shop was all he had inherited at the passing of his grandfather. Being the only remaining relative, it had come to him by default. He had not been close to his grandfather. Time, distance, and an inflated impression of success had kept his visits less than frequent. In his younger years he had spent his summers in the shop, running errands and keeping things tidy.

Back then, the small town was bustling and had been his home away from home, the streets his playground as he cruised around on his BMX bike. Roger shook his head, shutting out the memories. That had been a lifetime ago. He had grown up. Made something of himself. And clearly, he had fared much better than the town.

He took a deep breath and straightened his overcoat before crossing the street.

The bell overhead chimed as he opened the door. A girl sitting behind the desk at the back of the shop barely glanced up from the thick book in her hands. Ticking clocks covered every inch of the walls. The smell of old wood and musty carpets assaulted Roger’s nose. He closed his eyes as the memories rushed over him. He felt thirteen again, all awkward and uncomfortable in his own skin. He stroked his mustache and cleared his throat. He was a grown man, and this was only temporary, he reminded himself. The clocks ticked on in an indifferent fashion. “Hello,” he called out.

The girl at the desk didn’t look up. “You can fill out a form and leave your clock there.” Her eyes remained glued to the book.

Suddenly a cacophony of noise erupted around him. Chimes of all tones, some high pitched some deep baritone, rang out as the many clocks began to mark the hour. The cuckoo bird popped out of the clock beside his face startling him. Twelve chimes. Silence fell. The silence was awkwardly broken as a latecomer joined the party, chiming the hour two minutes slow. The girl behind the desk frowned and closed her book. She got up and stared intently at the tardy clock. “Every day it does the same thing. I fix it but it always loses a minute just before noon.” She shook her head. “Highly unusual.”

“You are going to get all worked up about one minute?” Roger had lost his job to habitual tardiness, a decision he felt to be completely unreasonable.  He already disliked the girl.

The girl turned and scrutinized Roger, eyes taking in his unkempt hair, dark glasses, worn shoes. Nothing in his appearance gave an impression of precision. “That amounts to 365 minutes a year– a loss of six hours and five minutes of one’s life.” She returned to her desk and picked up her book. “I could get a lot of reading done in six hours.”

“Well, don’t let me stop you.” Roger put his suitcase down on the floor. “What are you reading?”

“Lunch is over.” She sighed and put the thick book in her bag. “Did you have a clock that needed repair?”

Roger shifted his feet. “I am actually looking for Ruby.”

The girl nodded impatiently. “A clock?” she prompted again.

Roger chuckled nervously. “Oh, excuse me! I, uh, expected someone a little more… mature.” He twirled his moustache with his fingers. The girl before him rolled her eyes.

Her short stature and strawberry blonde hair hid her thirty years well, something she had long ago stopped caring about. Her eyes darted to the misbehaving clock, clearly anxious to be done with the man.  

Roger tried again. “Well, Ruby, I am Roger.” He waited expectantly. Ruby’s eyes remained fixed on the wayward clock, her mind searching for answers. Roger smiled uneasily. “Roger Rutherford the Third,” he announced much too loudly, as his hands swept air above his head, “and the proud new owner of ‘Second Hand Repairs’.”

The words were strange in his mouth. Roger knew very little about clocks, a detail he tried to ignore but that kept stubbornly resurfacing. A detail that he feared would become increasingly more relevant as time went on.

Ruby couldn’t hide the shock that covered her face before she squeezed her eyes shut. Her youthful appearance had always made her easy to underestimate, and apparently her many years of training under the clock masters of Switzerland had done nothing to change that. She had fully expected to become the next owner of the charming clock shop where she had apprenticed under the careful eye of old Mr. Roger Rutherford. He had never mentioned any namesakes and often spoke of her future there. Her mind went to the countless overtime hours she had given to the old man, willingly sacrificing any thought of life outside of the shop. “You may delay, but time will not,” Mr. Rutherford was fond of saying when a project clock was waiting for repair.

She snapped her mouth shut, swallowing hot words.  “Mr. Yamada will be coming to pick up his clock shortly. I had told him it was fixed. Clearly, it’s not. If you’ll excuse me.” She brushed past him, seized the offending clock, her anger unmistakable.

Her foot caught on the rug, still askew from Roger’s suitcase, and the clock flew from her hands. Without thinking, Roger lunged forward and caught it as Ruby stumbled into him.

The clock was light, yet it settled in his hands with an odd weight. His fingertips pressed against the worn frame; a dent along the bottom gave it a lopsided look. It was weathered. Old. Hardly worth the effort to repair.

His finger traced the scratch etched across the clock face.

In an instant the scene of an old kitchen flashed across his mind. The smell of burnt potatoes hit him. Harsh words echoed. A door slammed. The clock fell. Then silence.

Roger blinked and tried to make sense of what he had just seen. “When it fell, the time was just before noon,” he noted aloud.

Ruby snatched the clock from his hands. “What fell?”

Roger stared at the worn clock in Ruby’s hands. “That clock. It fell from a kitchen wall.” Roger shrugged. “There was an argument. Someone left, slamming the door behind them, and the clock fell to the ground at 11:59.” He paused when he saw the look on Ruby’s face and wished he could take back the words. “…maybe,” he added as he twirled his moustache nervously. His words surprised himself.

Ruby bit her lip and glanced down at the clock, the dent suddenly prominent. The clock ticked on, giving no credit to Roger’s words. Clocks didn’t work like that. A fall might explain the dent, but the loss of time was unrelated. She scowled at Roger’s weak smile.  This man appeared out of nowhere, claimed he owned the clock shop that was rightfully hers, and came up with this cockamamie story. How rudely arrogant.

The bell above the door jingled. An elderly gentleman shuffled in, shoulders bent under the weight of a lifetime, face creased and worn with age. “Hello, Ruby!” His voice was slow and careful. “I’ve come to collect my clock.”   

Ruby smiled warmly at the old man. “Hello, Mr. Yamada.” She put the clock gently down on the counter. “How are you today?”

“Ah, Ruby, today… today, I feel weary.” He paused and his shoulders stooped further. “But if you say my clock is fixed…” he stroked the clock sitting on the counter, “that makes my heart so glad. It is my favorite clock.”

Roger stepped forward. “Mr. Yamada, Roger Rutherford.” He thrust out his hand in greeting.

Mr. Yamada moved slowly to shake it. “Roger Rutherford… you must be the grandson… Roger spoke of you often. I am so sorry for your loss.” Ruby looked bewildered. She had never heard of the old man speaking of his grandson.

Roger nodded enthusiastically. “I am. And the proud new owner of this little shop.” He paused and pointed at the clock on the counter. “I’ve only just arrived in town, but I’ve had a look at your little clock.” Ruby snorted. Roger ignored her. “How is your son, Mr. Yamada?”

Mr. Yamada looked at Roger in surprise. “My son? He’s been gone a long time. I was telling Ruby when I dropped the clock off, it was a gift from him. That’s why it’s so important to me,” tears welled up in the old man’s eyes. “I’ve not heard from him in years… when he left, we argued…” his voice trailed off.

Roger smiled. So he had been right.

Ruby wracked her memory. She didn’t remember Mr. Yamada saying anything about his son when he had come. She felt a twinge of guilt. Truth be told, she hadn’t really listened to anything Mr. Yamada had said when he dropped the clock off, she had only been interested in getting back to work. She squared her shoulders. “It was an irrelevant detail,” she murmured to herself before clearing her throat. She was in charge here.  “About the clock, Mr. Yamada. I may have been hasty in calling you in. Seems it’s not quite ready yet. It still drops the minute just before noon.” She shook her head in frustration.

Roger smiled gently at the old man. “Have you considered that maybe the clock isn’t broken?” He hesitated, then reached out to grasp Mr. Yamada’s arm. “Maybe… maybe it’s waiting?”

Ruby snorted again. “What a ridiculous—,” she caught herself as Mr. Yamada nodded vigorously.

“You, my friend, might be right. I have often wondered the same thing myself. He left in such anger, but my heart has never stopped hoping that with time…” He picked up the clock and stroked it lovingly. “Well then,” he tucked it under his arm, “we shall wait together.” He whistled a tune as he left the shop.

Roger grinned as the door closed behind him. This was going to be easier than he thought. “Not too bad, eh?!” he bowed to Ruby with a flourish. “I think I’m going to like it here.”

Ruby snapped her mouth shut. Not if she had anything to do with it.