The Clockmaker’s Gift

Ishmael was utterly smitten with clocks, though he had yet to learn how to tell the time. He loved tinkering with them, even if his efforts often led to happy little accidents. There was something enchanting about the steady movement of a clock’s hands, each tick and tock a melody to his ears. 

Ishmael and his parents had just moved to a new home. To him, the place seemed tall like a tree and crumbling like a castle. A grand observation, of course, seen through the eyes of a five year old boy.

He made his way through the hallways, up the stairs, and more stairs, and still more stairs. His tiny legs quivering with each step higher. Finally, at the very top, he discovered a beautifully ornate grandfather clock, standing alone in a corner.

Ishmael froze, struck with sheer excitement. “I’ve never seen such a big clock before!” he exclaimed, his voice full of delight and awe. 

He took a few steps back, his eyes wide as he examined the many carved details that left him puzzled. Flowers? Horses? Apple pie? Ishmael couldn’t make sense of it all, but that didn’t matter. He loved every detail: the clock face, larger than his head, and the hands stretching out like long, graceful arms, longer than his own feet.

Naturally, this became his favorite place. But, there was one tiny problem. The grandfather clock, as majestic as it was, wasn’t working.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

On the other side of town lived a man named Oscar, the very picture of gentleness—a grandfather figure who had seen it all and now sought only quiet solitude. Yet, there was one thing he despised above all else: clocks. It was an unusual hatred, given that he had once been a clockmaker.

In his youth, Oscar was renowned for his craftsmanship, creating custom timepieces for anyone who visited his workshop. It was his passion, passed down from his father, and he believed everyone deserves a time-telling trinket. 

Legends say he crafted timepieces of unmatched beauty, both grand and delicate, for wrists and for desks; creations so exquisite that people whispered he must possess some kind of magic. The people marveled at the elegance of his handiwork, enchanted by each piece as though it held the secrets of time itself.

But there was one creation, a grandfather clock, that he kept secret. Tall and ornate, with carvings of flowers, horses, and apple pies. A whimsical creation for his son, Ismail.

One day, Oscar heard a knock on the living room door. “I’m coming, dear,” he called out from his workshop, assuming his wife had forgotten her keys again, as she often did. She and Ismail had left for the market not long before.

But when Oscar opened the door, it wasn’t his wife standing there. It was a man.

“Oscar Garcia?”

“Yes,” Oscar replied. “Can I help you, sir?”

The man’s expression was unreadable, and Oscar’s heart began to race, as if a dark premonition was stirring deep within him.

“I’m sorry to be the bearer of bad news.”

Oscar’s wife and child had been struck by a speeding vehicle, and in the blink of an eye, his world unraveled. Grief consumed him, and his once-ordered life spiraled into chaos, each moment heavier than the last. He locked himself away in his workshop, losing all sense of time. His eyes remained fixed on the grandfather clock he had just completed, watching the hands tick forward but wishing he could turn back time instead.

He looked around at the drawers filled with tools, the gears stacked neatly, and the dozens of finished clocks strewn about. Not a single one could reverse what had passed. The clocks he had made with such passion, each one a labor of love, had now become painful reminders… reminders that time never rewinds. Not for anyone. Not even for a clockmaker.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

Our little boy Ishmael of the present day had grown more and more fond of the grandfather clock and his dad brought in several repairmen to fix it, but none could get it working. “Too intricate,” one said. “Too complicated,” complained another. Yet, each shared pieces of tales about the legendary craftsman who built it.

Determined, the good father set out to find the elusive clockmaker. Days turned into weeks, and weeks into months, and eventually, Oscar was found.

•• ━━━━━ ••●•• ━━━━━ ••

It was a cool December morning. Oscar sat on the porch of his home, a book lying unopened on his lap as he gazed into the distance and noticed a family of three approaching.

The little boy dangling between his parents’ hands caught his attention first. The child swung playfully, giggling, his arms adorned with at least a dozen mismatched watches. Oscar’s lips twitched, a scoff threatening to escape, but something about the boy’s bright grin softened the edges of his heart.

“Mr. Oscar Garcia?” the father called out politely.

Oscar grunted. “What do you need?”

The father bent down, whispering something to the boy. Whatever he said made the child’s eyes light up. The boy let go of his parents’ hands and ran toward Oscar, his small legs moving quickly.

“Good day, Mr. Clockmaker, sir!” the boy chirped. “My name is Ishmael, and I’m five years old. We have your big clock at home!”

Oscar froze, stunned. The boy’s enthusiasm hit him like a gust of wind, unsettling the stillness that had taken root in his soul.

Oscar stared at the boy for a long moment, his heart caught in a strange tangle of emotions. The name, Ishmael, echoed painfully in his mind, stirring memories of his own son, Ismail, whose laughter had once filled his workshop.

“The clock,” Oscar said gruffly, his voice thick. “You say you have it?”

“Yes, sir!” Ishmael beamed, oblivious to the storm inside Oscar. “It’s so big and so pretty, but it doesn’t work. I tried fixing it myself, but I think it’s still sleepy. Maybe you could wake it up?”

Oscar felt a lump rise in his throat. He looked away, pretending to adjust his chair. “I don’t fix clocks anymore.”

“But why not?” Ishmael tilted his head, confused. “Don’t you love them? My dad said you’re the best clockmaker in the whole world!”

Oscar chuckled dryly, shaking his head. “Love is… complicated, boy. Sometimes, the things we love the most can hurt us.”

Ishmael frowned, as if the idea didn’t sit well with him. “But if you love something, you shouldn’t let it stay broken. That’s what my mom says about my toys. If it’s broken, we try to fix it, and if we can’t, we make something new.”

Oscar’s breath caught. The boy’s innocence, his simplicity, struck a chord deep within him. For years, he had let his grief lock him away, afraid to touch a clock, afraid to let time remind him of what he had lost. Yet here was this child, a bright mirror of the boy he had loved so fiercely, asking him to fix something again.

“Ishmael,” Oscar said slowly, his voice softening, “if I were to help with the clock… what would you do with it?”

The boy grinned. “I’d take care of it forever! And I’ll become a master clockmaker like you!” 

Oscar looked at the boy, his heart stirring with something that felt like hope. His gaze shifted to the father, who watched with quiet understanding, and then back to Ishmael.

“Maybe,” Oscar murmured. “Maybe I can teach you a thing or two. But first, we’ll start with that big clock of yours.”

Ishmael squealed with delight, clapping his hands. “Yay! Thank you, Mr. Clockmaker!”

Oscar let out a quiet sigh, a weight lifting from his shoulders. For the first time in years, he felt a spark of purpose. Small and fragile, but alive. He wasn’t bringing back the past, but perhaps, through this boy, he could honor it.

As they walked back to the family’s car, Ishmael chattering about gears and springs, Oscar glanced at the boy and smiled.

“Call me Oscar,” he said.

“Okay, Mr. Oscar!” Ishmael beamed.

From that day on, the grandfather clock was restored, standing not just as a timepiece but as a symbol of new beginnings. Its steady ticking served as a reminder that even in the face of loss, time moves forward, carrying with it the hope of renewal. Oscar became Ishmael’s mentor, teaching him the art of clockmaking and passing on the knowledge he had once abandoned. In return, Ishmael breathed life and laughter back into Oscar’s world.

Though the past could not be undone, Oscar found peace in the present. And as Ishmael’s tiny hands shaped gears and springs with growing skill under Oscar’s watchful eye, the old clockmaker realized that sometimes, the end of one chapter is merely the beginning of another, hidden in plain sight.