Chapter 3: The Girl in the Rain

Chapter 3: The Girl in the Rain

Elias studied the girl in the doorway for a long moment, the rain whispering behind her like a hushed secret. She was shivering slightly, her fingers white from cold and worry. Though she looked small and worn by the weather, her eyes held something striking—bold, curious, and quietly determined.

He stepped aside without a word, motioning her into the warmth of the workshop.

“Take off your coat,” he said gently. “You'll catch your death in that storm.”

She obeyed silently, revealing a faded green dress beneath the soaked fabric. Her boots squelched softly against the wooden floor as she moved further inside, her eyes wide with wonder at the ticking symphony surrounding her. Clocks lined every wall, their sounds weaving into a rhythm that felt almost alive. For a brief moment, she forgot her worry and turned slowly in place, awestruck.

Elias allowed her to look. He understood what this place could do to someone seeing it for the first time. It was more than gears and pendulums. It was a shrine to memory, to mystery—to time itself.

She stepped toward his workbench and carefully unwrapped the cloth she had held so tightly. Inside lay a silver pocket watch, cracked and still. The hands were frozen at 2:47.

“My father gave it to me,” she said, her voice soft. “It stopped the night he died.”

Elias took the watch with reverent hands. It was older than she was—an elegant piece, well-crafted but worn by years of use. The case was engraved with initials: J.R. The glass had a jagged fracture, but the internal mechanism felt intact. With time, it could tick again.

“I’ll fix it,” he said simply, then nodded toward the fire.

“Warm yourself.”

She hesitated before settling beside the hearth, removing her boots and stretching her fingers toward the flame. Elias worked in silence, careful not to rush.

There was something about this watch—and this girl—that stirred something in him. A memory. Or perhaps a warning.

“What’s your name?” he asked without looking up.

“Mira.”

“Where are you from, Mira?”

“North of the hills. A small village. My mother died when I was little. My father was… a clockmaker, too.” Her voice caught on the word. “Or at least, he tried to be. He wasn’t very good at it.”

Elias paused, studying the watch again. The gears were clean, but something was unusual—an extra notch near the back plate, like it had been modified. It was a small thing, but it felt… intentional. He’d seen hundreds of watches in his lifetime, but never one quite like this.

He replaced the glass and wound the spring, then pressed the crown.

Tick.

Tick.

Tick.

The sound filled the air like a breath returning to the body. Mira turned at the noise, eyes wide.

“You fixed it,” she whispered, almost in disbelief.

Elias nodded, but his brow furrowed. Something tugged at him—a feeling that this watch was not just any relic. It had a story stitched into its gears. And now, that story had entered his.

Mira stood, carefully cradling the watch in her hands. “Thank you, sir.”

Elias studied her, then said, “Stay a while. There's more you should learn—about clocks… and perhaps about your father.”

Outside, the rain fell harder.

Inside, something had begun.

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