The Clockmaker

Three months after her mother's funeral, Ava Martin carries a stopped pocket watch into a narrow Parisian clock shop she's never noticed before. The horologist, Grayson Bellamy, opens the jammed case with ease and recognizes something in the engraving she can't explain. Behind a hidden panel in his workshop lies a room full of clocks that run backward — and Grayson claims they do more than just keep counterclockwise time. 

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The first time I saw Grayson Bellamy's shop, I nearly walked past it. Nestled between a modern petisserie and a tourist trap cafe on one of the Marie's twisting streets, the narrow storefront seemed to exist in its own pocket of time. A small brass plaque reading simply Bellamy Orlogerie hung beside a door of age-darkened wood, while the display window held just three antique clocks, each more exquisite than the last. I paused, my fingers closing around my mother's pocket watch in my coat pocket. The curved silver case had grown warm against my palm during the long walk across Paris, as if it sensed its homecoming was near. For three months since her funeral, I'd kept the watch close, unable to open its stuck cover, unwilling to part with it even for repair. But I couldn't bear the silence of its stopped mechanism any longer. The bell above the door chimed softly when I entered, a gentle counterpoint to the symphony of ticking that filled the shop. Timepieces of every description lined the walls. Tall grandfather clocks with ornate faces, delicate carriage clocks under glass domes, sturdy maritime chronometers that once guided ships across vast oceans. The air smelled of polish and metal and time itself. May I help you? The voice came from the back of the shop, low and melodious with the faintest trace of an accent I couldn't place. A man stepped into view, and I felt a strange flutter in my chest. Grayson Bellamy was not what I'd expected. I'd imagined someone ancient, hunched over watchmaker's tools with a magnifying loop permanently affixed to one eye. Instead, he stood tall and straight, perhaps in his early fifties, with thick hair the color of burnished silver, swept back from a face that seemed carved by an artist's hand. His eyes were the deep blue of twilight, surrounded by fine lines that suggested frequent laughter rather than age. He wore a tailored waistcoat over a crisp white shirt, with the sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms marked by the light scars of his craft. I have a watch that needs repair, I said, then cleared my throat when my voice came out softer than intended. It was my mother's. His expression softened. May I see it? Our fingers brushed as I placed the pocket watch in his outstretched palm. He handled it with reverent care, turning it over to examine the engraving on the back, a pattern of ivy leaves surrounding my mother's initials. Beautiful craftsmanship, he murmured. Nineteenth century Swiss maid. His fingers found the catch that had resisted my attempts, and the cover sprang open. Ah, I see the problem. The balance wheel is damaged. Fixable certainly, but it will take time. How long? I asked. His twilight eyes met mine. A week, perhaps two. These things cannot be rushed, Mademoiselle. Ava Martin, I supplied. I restore stained glass windows. I understand about taking time with delicate things. Something flickered across his face. Interest, perhaps, or recognition of a kindred spirit. In that case, Mademoiselle Martin, I think you might appreciate seeing something few others do. He gestured for me to follow him toward the rear of the shop, past a heavy velvet curtain that separated the public space from his workshop. A long bench stretched along one wall, covered with the specialized tools of horology, tweezers, files, tiny screwdrivers, and magnifiers. Half assembled movements lay in labeled trays, waiting for his attention. But Grayson didn't stop there. Instead he moved to a seemingly solid panel of dark wood at the back wall, and pressed against it in a specific sequence. With a soft click, the panel swung inward, revealing a hidden door. What I'm about to show you requires, shall we say, a certain perspective, he said, holding the door for me. Most people see only broken things where I see possibility. Curiosity propelled me forward into a room that shouldn't have existed within the confines of the small shop. Larger than the front room, it held dozens of clocks arranged on shelves and tables. Unlike those in the main shop, many of these time pieces appeared broken or unfinished. Some had exposed mechanisms. Others lacked hands or numbers. Your restoration workshop? I guessed. Grayson smiled, the expression transforming his serious face. In a manner of speaking. He crossed to the nearest table and lifted a small desk clock with an ornate silver face. When he wound it and set it down, I noticed something odd. The second hand, I said, It's moving backward. Yes. His voice held a note of satisfaction. As are all the clocks in this room. I moved through the space, examining one timepiece after another. Each one, from pocket watches to wall clocks, ran counterclockwise, their hands making their circuit against the natural order. How is this possible? I asked. And why? Grayson leaned against his workbench, regarding me with an inscrutable expression. The how is a trade secret passed down through generations of my family. As for the why? His gaze drifted to a particularly ornate carriage clock on a high shelf. Some moments are too beautiful to move past Mademoiselle Martin. And some hearts, too broken to move forward. The sadness in his voice resonated within me. Since my mother's death, I'd felt stuck between the past and present, unable to move on but unable to go back. Can I touch them? I asked. He nodded. Please. I approached a grandfather clock with a case of deep cherry wood. Its face showed not only the time but the phases of the moon, all running in reverse. When my fingers brushed the smooth wood, a peculiar sensation washed over me, like plunging into cool water on a hot day. A momentary displacement followed by relief. You felt it, Grayson observed suddenly beside me. Not everyone does. What was that? Time, he said simply. Or rather, its echo. He hesitated as if weighing a decision, then added, These clocks don't merely run backward, Mademoiselle Martin. Under certain conditions, they can take one there. I should have laughed, or made my excuses and fled from this strange man with his impossible claims. Instead, I found myself asking, will you show me? Something sparked in his eyes. Hope, perhaps. I was rather hoping you might help me instead. Your skills with restoration. Combined with my knowledge of these time pieces. He gestured around the room. Many of these are incomplete or damaged. I haven't been able to finish them alone. Why me? You felt the echo, he said, as if this explained everything. And you understand that beauty sometimes needs to be reconstructed piece by piece. He extended his hand. Will you help me, Ava? I hesitated for a moment, before clasping his hand. His palm was warm, marked with calluses from years of delicate work. Yes, I said. I will. And so began my apprenticeship with Grayson Bellamy, master of time's mysteries. Days stretched into weeks as I split my time between my stained glass workshop and Grayson's hidden room. My fingers, already deft from years of cutting and soldering glass, adapted quickly to the intricate work of clock repair. Gentle pressure, he murmured, his breath warm against my ear as we bent over a particularly stubborn mechanism. Feel the resistance, then yield to it. I became acutely aware of his proximity, the subtle scent of sandalwood that clung to his clothes, the strength in his hands as they enveloped mine, the occasional brush of his chest against my back when he leaned closer to demonstrate a technique. A different kind of tension wound itself around my heart, as precise and measured as the clockwork before us. One evening, as Paris's lights glimmered in the gathering dusk outside the shop windows, Grayson brought out a bottle of aged cognac and two crystal glasses. A celebration, he explained, pouring amber liquid that caught the lamplight. You've completed your first backward clock. The timepiece in question sat before us on the workbench, a small carriage clock with an enameled face showing a scene of the Seine. I'd replaced the damaged enamel work while Grayson had adjusted the mechanism. Together, we'd created something both beautiful and impossible. Two unlikely partnerships, he said, raising his glass. And backward clocks, I added, clinking my glass against his. The cognac burned sweetly down my throat. As warmth spread through my limbs, I studied Grayson's face in the gentle light. The silver in his hair gleamed, and the lines around his eyes deepened as he smiled. Why did you trust me with your secret? I asked. He contemplated his glass. Perhaps because you trusted me with something equally precious. He nodded toward my mother's pocket watch, which lay repaired on the workbench. Or perhaps because I've been alone with these clocks for too long. How long have you been making them? My grandfather taught me the secret when I was a boy. But I've only been creating them in earnest for the past ten years. He set down his glass. Since Marie died. I asked softly. He nodded. Cancer. Too quick and too slow all at once. His fingers traced the edge of the workbench. Afterward, I became obsessed with these timepieces and their possibilities. I reached across the table and covered his hand with mine. I'm sorry. His eyes met mine, filled with something that made my breath catch. I've never shown anyone else the backward room. Not even Marie knew about it. The weight of this confession hung between us. Impulsively I asked, Will you show me what they do? You said they don't just run backward. Grayson's expression turned cautious. It's not without risk. What kind of risk? The clocks create pockets of reverse time, he explained. Brief periods where one can experience the past directly. But the danger lies in wanting to stay there. Have you? I asked. Stayed too long? Pain flickered across his face. Once. Early after Marie died. I lost nearly a week to a few hours in the past. When I returned to the present, I was not well. He straightened. Decision made. But a short experience should be safe enough. Shall we try? My heart thrummed with anticipation. Yes. Grayson selected a pocket watch from a drawer. Gold with an intricate engine turned pattern. This one provides the gentlest passage, he explained, winding it carefully. We'll start with just fifteen minutes. He pulled two chairs close together and instructed me to clasp the watch between our joined hands. Close your eyes, he whispered. Listen to the ticking and breathe with it. I did as he asked, feeling the cool metal warming between our palms. The ticking seemed to grow louder, synchronizing with my heartbeat until I couldn't tell where one ended and the other began. A sensation like falling overcame me, and I gripped Grayson's hands tighter. Open your eyes, Ava, Grayson's voice, somehow younger, said. I did, and gasped. We sat in the same positions, but the shop around us had transformed. Sunlight streamed through windows that seemed cleaner, brighter. The tools on the workbench gleamed newer, and the scent in the air was fresher, with notes of coffee and something baking nearby. But the most startling change was in Grayson himself. The silver had vanished from his hair, leaving it richly brown. The lines around his eyes had softened, though the eyes themselves, those remarkable twilight blue eyes, remained the same, watching me with wonder. What year is it? I whispered. Two thousand fourteen, he answered, ten years ago. I released his hands and stood on shaky legs, moving to the window. Outside, Paris flowed past, subtly different from the city I knew. Women wore styles I remembered from a decade ago, and the cafe across the street had a different name and facade. This is real, I breathed. We're really here. For a little while, Grayson said, coming to stand beside me. He looked perhaps forty in this time, handsome in a way that made my pulse quicken. We have about fifteen minutes before the watch brings us back. Can we go outside? I asked. He hesitated, then nodded. Stay close to me. The watch's influence extends only so far. We stepped out into a Paris bathed in golden late afternoon light. The air felt different against my skin, fresher, filled with electricity. Music drifted from somewhere nearby, an accordion playing a wistful melody. Grayson offered his arm, and I took it, hyperaware of the solid warmth of him beside me. We strolled along the narrow street as if we were any other couple enjoying the day. Is this how you remember it? I asked. Better, he replied, his eyes never leaving my face. You're here. The simple statement sent heat rushing to my cheeks. This younger Grayson moved with a confident ease, unburdened by the grief that haunted his older self. Yet I could see echoes of the man I knew in his expressions, his gestures, the careful way he guided me through the crowded sidewalk. We reached a small square where the accordion player sat by a fountain. Coins glinted in his open case as he played La Villon Rose. Grayson stopped, turning to face me. May I have this dance, Mademoiselle Martin? Without waiting for my answer, he swept me into a gentle waltz beside the fountain. I followed his lead, surprised by how naturally our bodies moved together. His hand at the small of my back guided me with perfect pressure, and his eyes held mine with an intensity that made the world around us fade. I've wanted to do this since you first walked into my shop, he confessed. You didn't even know me three weeks ago. I reminded him, breathless from more than just the dancing. His smile held secrets. In my time I've known you longer. Before I could ask what he meant, a tremor passed through the air around us. The music wavered, sounding suddenly distant. The watch, Grayson said, his expression turning serious. Our time is ending. He led me quickly back toward the shop, his hand firm around mine. As we reached the door, the trembling intensified. The street seemed to ripple like heat waves on summer pavement. Inside the shop, Grayson pulled me close, one arm around my waist, while his other hand retrieved the pocket watch from his vest. Hold on to me, he instructed. I wrapped my arms around him, pressing my face against his chest. His heartbeat thundered under my ear, quick but steady. The world tilted and swirled around us, colors bleeding into one another until everything went momentarily dark. Then, with a sensation like surfacing from deep water, we were back in the present. The younger Grayson was gone, replaced by the silver haired man I'd come to know. But my arms remained around him, and his around me. For a moment, neither of us moved. I became aware of every point of contact between us. His hand splayed against my back, my palms pressed to his shoulders, our bodies aligned from chest to knee. His eyes, unchanged across the years, searched mine. Slowly, reluctantly, he released me and stepped back. Are you all right? he asked, his voice rough. I nodded, unable to find words for the emotions swirling through me. I'd just danced with a younger version of this man in Paris ten years ago. More unsettling was the realization that I'd felt drawn to both versions of him, the youthful clockmaker with laughing eyes, and the silver haired craftsman with sorrow etched into his features. That was I began. Dangerous, he finished. I shouldn't have taken you outside the shop. The watch's field is strongest here where it was made. I'm fine, I assured him. It was wonderful. His expression softened. Yes, it was. He carefully placed the watch back in its drawer. But we should be more cautious in the future. If you wish there to be a future for this experiment, I do. I said firmly. Something like hope flickered in his eyes before he glanced at the clock on the wall. A normal one, running forward. It's late. Let me call you a taxi. As I gathered my things, I felt as if I were waking from a dream, except for the lingering sensation of Grayson's hand at my waist and the memory of music by a fountain. Over the following weeks, our work on the backward clocks intensified, as did the current between us. Each timepiece we repaired together became an opportunity for another journey, brief excursions into moments from the past decade. We established rules, never stay longer than thirty minutes, never venture far from the shop, never attempt to change anything significant. Within these constraints, we created stolen pockets of magic. In 2017, we listened to a violinist play Bach in Place de Vosges as rain fell, sharing Grayson's umbrella as droplets turned the cobblestones to mirrors. In 2012, we discovered a hidden courtyard where an artist had filled every wall with trompeaux windows, looking out on impossible landscapes. In 2019, we sat at a tiny cafe table as snow fell silently around us, warming our hands on cups of rich chocolate. In each timeline, Grayson appeared at the corresponding age, sometimes with touches of silver at his temples, sometimes with none at all, but always with those same twilight eyes that followed me, as if memorizing every detail. In the present, our relationship had evolved with cautious tenderness. His hand would linger on mine when passing a tool. I would bring morning pastries and coffee, learning exactly how he took each. We worked later and later into the evenings, reluctant to part. One night, after returning from a brief visit to 2016, Grayson closed the drawer containing our travel watch with unusual finality. What's wrong? I asked. I've been selfish, he said, not meeting my eyes. These journeys, they're becoming too frequent, too seductive. I don't feel seduced against my will, I countered. I want to go. That's precisely the problem. He finally looked at me, his expression grave. Time wasn't meant to be experienced this way, Ava. Moving back and forth, sampling moments like dishes at a feast. The human heart wasn't designed for it. Wasn't your heart designed by the same Creator who made time? I asked softly. His eyes widened slightly at this perspective. Perhaps. But I've seen what happens when someone becomes addicted to revisiting the past. My grandfather spent his final years lost in his own memories, unable to distinguish between what had been and what was. I moved closer, until just inches separated us. Is that what you fear will happen to me? Or to yourself? Both, he admitted. I watch how your face lights up each time we prepare for a journey, and I recognize the same hunger that once consumed me after Marie died. The desire to escape the present. That's not why I go, I said. Then why? I reached up, hesitating briefly before placing my palm against his cheek. His skin was warm, the slight roughness of evening stubble beneath my fingers. I go to see all versions of you, I confessed, to understand the man you were and the man you've become. When we're in the past, I see glimmers of joy unclouded by loss. And when we return, I see a depth and wisdom that only experience could create. He stood perfectly still under my touch, as if afraid any movement might shatter the moment. And which do you prefer? he asked, his voice barely above a whisper. The younger man without grief's shadow? Or this older version standing before you? I stroked my thumb across his cheekbone. They're both you. I've fallen in love with the whole timeline. The words once spoken couldn't be taken back, nor did I wish to retrieve them. They hung in the air between us, true and terrifying in their implications. Grayson closed his eyes briefly, as if in pain. When he opened them, they shone with moisture. Ava, he breathed, my name a prayer and a question. Then his hands were cradling my face, and his mouth was on mine, gentle at first, then with growing urgency. I pressed closer, my arms winding around his neck as years of loneliness dissolved in the heat between us. He tasted of the mint tea we'd shared earlier, and something uniquely his own. His fingers threaded through my hair, angling my head to deepen the kiss as my body melted against his. When we finally broke apart, both breathless, he rested his forehead against mine. I've wanted to do that every year we've visited. He confessed. Why didn't you? I needed to be certain you wanted the man I am now, not just reflections from the past. His hands moved to my waist, holding me as if I might disappear. I'm fifty three years old, Ava. You're barely thirty. I've loved and lost a wife. My future has fewer years than my past. Time is your specialty, I reminded him. Shouldn't you know better than anyone that it's quality that matters, not quantity? A smile tugged at his lips. Spoken like a true artist. His expression sobbered. But there's something else you should know before this goes further. He led me to a small desk in the corner of the backward room and unlocked its drawer. From inside he withdrew a leather bound journal and opened it to a marked page. A photograph was paperclipped to the corner, faded with age, showing a young woman with dark hair bent over what looked like a stained glass panel. My grandmother, Grayson said quietly. Elise Bellamy, born Elise Martin. I stared at the photograph, then at Grayson. Martin is a common name, I said, but uncertainty crept into my voice. True. But how common is this? He gently turned my mother's pocket watch over to reveal the ivy pattern surrounding her initials. Then he showed me a sketch in the journal, the exact same pattern, labeled Elise's design. This watch originally belonged to my grandmother, Grayson explained. She gave it to her daughter, who must have given it to your mother. My mind raced through the implications. Are we related? No, he assured me quickly. Elise was my grandfather's second wife. There's no blood connection. But there is a connection through time. One I didn't understand until you walked into my shop with this watch. You knew from the beginning, I realized. You recognized the watch. He nodded. I suspected. But I wasn't certain until you responded to the backward clocks. The ability to sense time's echo runs in families that have worked with these timepieces. My grandfather believed some people are naturally attuned to time's mysteries. Your reaction confirmed what I'd hoped. That you're connected to this legacy through Elise. Did you approach me because of the watch? I asked, suddenly unsure of everything that had developed between us. Grayson took my hands. I showed you the backward room because of the watch, he corrected. Everything else, our work together, our journeys, this. He raised our joined hands to his lips, kissing my fingers. Happened because of who you are, who we are together. I studied his face, finding only sincerity in his eyes. So what does this mean for us? It means you have a choice, he said. The backward clocks offer us something few lovers ever have the ability to experience one another across time spectrum. But that gift comes with responsibility. We must decide how to use it wisely. Understanding dawned. That's why you've been concerned lately. You're afraid we'll become trapped in the past. Not just any past, he said. My past. The years before grief changed me. The implication stung. Do you think I prefer your younger self? Don't you? He's more your equal in years. Less marked by loss. I pulled my hands free from his and paced across the room. You don't understand at all, I said, frustration building. When we visit the past, I see fragments of the man standing before me now. And when we return, I see the sum of all you've been, and all you've endured. I turned to face him. I love dancing with your younger self, yes. But I come back to the present because this is where you are most completely yourself. Grayson crossed to me slowly, as if approaching a wild creature that might bolt. And what of your future? Children? A husband who won't leave you a widow while you're still young? Don't make my choices for me, I said fiercely. I've seen what time can do, stealing my mother when she should have had decades more. Tomorrow isn't promised to anyone, regardless of age. He stopped before me, close enough that I could see the varied blues in his irises. What do you want, Ava? From time, from life? From me? The question deserved a considered answer. I thought about the backward clocks surrounding us, each one a symbol of humanity's complicated relationship with time. We strive to measure it, control it, reverse it, anything but simply live within it. I want to restore what's broken without erasing its history, I finally said. In my work with stained glass, I preserve the cracks and seams that tell a window's story, even as I make it whole again. I want to love you the same way, honoring all you've been while creating something new. I reached for his hand. And I want us to move forward together, even as we care for these backward running treasures. Hope dawned across his features like sunrise. Together, he repeated. In the present. With occasional visits to the past, I amended with a smile. For research purposes, of course. He laughed then, the sound transforming his face into something so beautiful it made my heart ache. Of course, he agreed, pulling me into his arms. But no longer than an hour at a time. Agreed, I said, rising on tiptoes to brush my lips against his. We have too much to experience in the here and now. As if to seal our pact, clocks chimed around us, some running backward, some forward, all marking our moment in time. Grayson's arms tightened around me, as his mouth found mine again, and I gave myself to the kiss completely, falling into the present with all its imperfect perfection. Outside the shop windows, Paris continued its eternal flow, past and present mingling in ancient streets, as couples strolled hand in hand beneath spring blossoms, each creating their own pocket of time, where love made every second precious, regardless of which direction the hands on the clock moved.