short fiction · 2026-10-31

The Clockmaker's Daughter

Written in free time, from: Creative writing

The gears in her chest did not tick — they breathed. Each inhalation wound the mainspring a little tighter, each exhalation let the escapement sing its quiet song. Her father had built her this way, he said, so she would never forget she was alive. But the village children called her clockwork, and the priest crossed himself when she passed.

At seventeen, she stopped winding herself. Let the spring run down. The silence was terrifying at first — no metronome heart, no percussion in her ribs. Then she noticed: the birds outside her window kept singing. The river kept rushing. Her father's clocks on the wall kept their steady conversation, indifferent to her mutiny.

She is twenty-three now. She winds the village clocks every Sunday, her fingers sure on keys she did not make. Her own chest stays quiet. Sometimes, in the deep night, she presses her palm to her sternum and waits. Just once, she thinks, she would like to hear it skip.