The Clockmaker’s Paradox
In the cobblestoned town of Veribrook, every household owned at least one creation by Old Master Lutz—the finest clockmaker in three kingdoms. His grandfather clocks chimed with voices that sounded like choirs, his pocket-watches could count heartbeats, and his miniature carousel clock spun tin horses in perfect waltz time. But there was one device he never sold:
The Paradox Clock—a mahogany case that hid its face behind twelve brass shutters.
Each shutter was stamped with a single word: Past, Past, Past… Present… Future, Future, Future…
Rumor said the Paradox Clock could show any moment you wished to see—yesterday’s regret, tomorrow’s triumph—if you learned how to open the right shutter. No customer ever dared to ask for it. They just whispered about it while waiting in line.
Enter Mira Faraway
Fourteen-year-old Mira Faraway, daughter of a traveling tinker, arrived one windy afternoon. She had three things:
A battered suitcase of broken music boxes she hoped to repair.
A quicksilver curiosity that often landed her in trouble.
A promise to her late mother: “Do not fear questions; fear the day you stop asking them.”
While Master Lutz re-oiled her music boxes, Mira stared at the Paradox Clock on a dusty shelf. Its shutters looked like eyelids waiting to blink. She blurted, “Does it truly show the future?”
Lutz’s bushy eyebrows rose. “It shows what a seeker needs, not what a seeker wants. That is why it stays shut.”
Mira’s fingers itched to tinker. “What does need look like, exactly?”
“That,” the old man sighed, “is each soul’s own argument.”
Midnight Experiment
Unable to sleep in the inn’s attic room, Mira tiptoed back to the workshop. She’d once rebuilt a lopsided astrolabe; surely she could handle a few shutters. She picked the lock and slipped inside.
Up close, she noticed tiny gears embedded in each brass word—micro-cogs no larger than bread crumbs. A note lay beside the clock:
If you open one shutter, the others will close forever. Choose wisely.
Mira gulped. Past might reveal her mother’s last lullaby. Future could unveil the outcome of her own unfinished dreams: Would she ever become a master inventor? But the single Present shutter glowed faintly, as if sighing for attention.
What do I truly need? she wondered.
She pressed Present.
The brass leaf swung open… and revealed only a mirror.
For ten silent seconds, Mira stared at her reflection: soot-smudged cheeks, calloused hands, eyes equal parts wonder and worry. Then the mirror fogged and words etched themselves onto the glass:
“The gear that matters most is turning now.”
A shiver ran through her. The shutters snapped shut; the clock ticked normally again. Confused but unharmed, she relocked the workshop and fled.
A Town in Trouble
By dawn, Veribrook’s main square echoed with panic: the monumental tower clock—Veribrook’s heartbeat—had frozen at 6:17 a.m. Merchants refused to open stalls; schoolchildren lingered at crossroads; milk cooled in carts. In a town obsessed with punctuality, a silent clock was apocalypse.
Master Lutz shuffled into the square, tools clinking. He grimaced. “Its escapement gear is warped. Repair will take hours.” He was ninety-three; his hands trembled.
Mira thought of the mirror’s message: The gear that matters most is turning now. Logic sparked: If I act in this moment, maybe that’s the point.
She stepped forward. “I can climb inside the tower and hold the pendulum steady while you replace the gear.”
Gasps fluttered through the crowd. She was an outsider, a child. Lutz surprised everyone by handing her his best oil can. “Courage, apprentice.”
Racing the Bell
Inside the tower, gears the size of carriage wheels groaned. Mira shimmed up iron rungs, balancing on beams no wider than a loaf of bread. With every breath she repeated, “The present gear is me.” She wedged herself beside the pendulum and braced her boots against the frame. Lutz yelled from below, “Hold tight!”
Metal shrieked as he swapped the warped escapement for a freshly filed cog. Mira’s arms quivered; rust flakes pricked her palms. Just when her muscles begged to surrender, Lutz called, “Release!”
She jumped clear. The pendulum swooshed. Gears clicked in cascading harmony, and the tower’s great bell bonged 9:00 a.m.—cheering townsfolk erupted below.
The Gift
That evening, Master Lutz handed Mira a velvet pouch. Inside was the Paradox Clock’s single Past shutter, neatly unscrewed. “Souvenir,” he said. “You already discovered the real mechanism.”
“But won’t the clock be… incomplete?”
“The lesson is complete: time’s greatest marvel is the second you’re living. I’d almost forgotten myself.”
He offered her an apprenticeship; she accepted with tears and a grin.
Epilogue
Years later, travelers spoke of Mistress Mira Faraway, who built pocket-watches that chimed jokes, umbrellas that forecast weather, and a new tower clock whose numerals rearranged nightly so townsfolk wouldn’t obsess over exact minutes. And on her workbench sat an old mahogany case—empty, except for a mirror and a note:
Past and Future can wait.
Present is always under construction—so keep your gears turning.
Whenever children asked if the mirror was magic, Mira winked.
“It is if you’re looking instead of wishing. Now grab a wrench—let’s make this moment tick.”
And in Veribrook, laughter began to rival punctuality as the town’s most treasured sound.
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