short fiction · 2026-10-31

The Clockmaker's Apprentice

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The gears had stopped at 3:47, and Mara knew better than to ask why. Master Vellin's workshop smelled of oil and old brass, the kind of scent that settles into your fingers and stays there for days. She had been his apprentice for three winters now, and in all that time she had never once seen him wind the great clock in the tower. It simply ran, or it didn't, and when it didn't he would disappear into the back room for hours, returning with grease under his fingernails and a look in his eyes like he had been somewhere else entirely.

Today the silence stretched longer than usual. The town square outside was quiet — market day had ended early on account of the rain. Mara traced her thumb over the teeth of a gear she had cleaned that morning, counting: twelve, thirteen, fourteen. The metal was cold against her skin.

She could wait. She had waited before. But the rain was turning to sleet against the workshop window, and something in the quality of the silence had changed. Not empty. Held breath.

The back room door was closed. It had never been locked.

Mara set down the gear. Her fingers found the latch.