The Clockmaker’s Wish by Alina Fits

Once upon a time, in a village

nestled between the whispering woods and the silver-blue mountains, there lived an old clockmaker named Eliot. His hands were calloused, his spectacles always slipping down his nose, and his workshop smelled of cedar wood and silence. Eliot’s clocks were known far and wide – not just because they kept perfect time, but because they whispered stories in the quiet moments before midnight.

But Eliot had a secret.

Years ago, he had crafted a clock unlike any other. Inside its glass dome ticked not gears, but a tiny heart – his daughter’s, magically preserved when she fell into an enchanted sleep at the age of ten. Her name was Liora, and she had been cursed by the Shadow, a forest spirit angered when Eliot refused to sell his land to make way for a road. Every night, Eliot wound the heart-clock, whispering lullabies to its golden hands, hoping that one day, Liora would awaken.

One particularly cold evening, as frost laced the windows like spiderwebs of ice, a traveller stumbled into Eliot’s shop. She was a girl no older than sixteen, with eyes like moonstone and a voice that rang like chimes. Her name was Mira, and she claimed to be a Wanderkind – a child born under a comet’s tail, destined to wander and fix broken things.

«I heard your clocks speak», she said, brushing snow from her shoulders. «One called to me in a dream». Eliot, weary and wary, led her to the heart-clock. Mira bent close. «This is no clock. This is a promise». Her fingers danced over the glass, her eyes distant, as though listening to music only she could hear. «I can help», she said. «But it will cost you». «Anything», Eliot breathed. «Time», she whispered.«Yours». And Eliot agreed.

That night, Mira built a circle of salt and ash, gears and petals. She sang in a forgotten tongue, each note a thread pulling something unseen into place. Eliot watched as his hair turned silver and his back bent further with every verse. And then – when the final note fell silent – the clock shattered. And Liora opened her eyes.

There was joy, and there were tears. But there was also a price. Eliot, now frail and fading, had traded the last of his days for his daughter’s return. Mira turned to leave, but Liora stopped her. «You fix things», she said. «Can you fix him?». Mira looked at Eliot, then at the shards of the clock. «Maybe». She stayed, teaching Liora the old songs and listening to the whispers of time. Eliot, though growing weaker, smiled more than he had in years.

But the Shadow returned. It came from the forest, cold and silent, cloaked in darkness. «She was mine», it hissed. «Return her, or I take her soul». «She was never yours», Eliot said, standing with all the strength he had left. Mira stepped forward: «Then trade with me». «What could you possibly offer?» it sneered. «A name»,Mira said. The Shadow froze. Mira whispered seven forbidden syllables—the Shadow’s true name. It screamed, unraveling into smoke and ash.

Eliot collapsed. Mira knelt beside him. «You gave your time. Let me give you mine». She sang one last time, and Eliot’s breath returned – slow and steady. Mira, now glowing with starlight, faded into the dawn. Liora became the village’s new clockmaker, building wonders that told not just time but truth. And every winter, a child with moonlit eyes wandered into town, searching for something broken to mend.