Chapter 8

  Clocks and visits

  I’ll need a few tools,"i say casually, eyeing the cluttered workbench. Small flathead, precision tweezers, and a lens—so I can take the cover off my own watch and use it as a guide."

  Gerrick raises a brow. "Risky letting someone open their own prize like that."Not risky if you know what you’re doing," i counter.

  He grunts, then digs through a drawer, dropping the requested tools onto the bench with a clatter.

  "Here. Don’t scratch it."With the tools in hand, i stroll past a row of truly questionable designs until one catches my eye—Evermore’s tragic attempt at a cuckoo clock. Its “bird” is a carved seagull, painted in fading white and gray, with one wing hanging limp and an eye that seems to have been painted on in a hurry. The beak is open in a perpetual squawk, and the little door it’s supposed to emerge from is stuck halfway shut.

  "Perfect," i murmur, lifting it onto the bench. The thing is a jumble of gears and springs just visible through a warped back panel. It’s a disaster—exactly the kind of disaster i can fix to make a point.

  Gerrick folds his arms, leaning over to watch. "That one’s been broken for three years. If you get it to work, I’ll throw in an extra copper for sentimental value.

  "I set the watch on the bench, flipping it open with a practiced motion, the brass glinting in the lamplight. The precision tools feel almost too familiar in my hands, as though no time has passed since the last time i held them like this.

  As i begin easing the tiny screws loose from the back cover, a memory stirs—faint at first, then sharper. The smell of machine oil mixed with old wood. The quiet tick of dozens of clocks in a cramped little shop. A deep, steady voice guiding my fingers.

  "Easy now… not too much pressure. Let the part move with you, not against you," the old man had said, his hands hovering near yours but never snatching the work away. His tone was patient, almost reverent, as though timekeeping was a craft worth more than gold.

  My fingers mimic those long-ago lessons without thinking—careful, gentle, coaxing rather than forcing. The steady tick of my watch is joined in my mind by the remembered rhythm of all those clocks ticking together, a chorus of measured seconds.

  I swallow, blinking as my vision blurs for a moment. Under my breath, so quietly Gerrick can’t hear, i whisper:

  "Gra… grandpa."

  A single tear slips down my cheek before i catch it with the back of your wrist. I clear my throat softly, refocusing on the delicate gears now exposed before me, letting the memory guide my hands as i turn my attention to the pitiful seagull clock beside it.

  

  My tweezers lift a tiny brass gear from the seagull clock, my other hand steadying the warped frame. The ticking of my watch beside me is a perfect metronome, guiding each movement.

  

  "Huh," Gerrick says suddenly, breaking the quiet.

  "How does a random traveler know so much about something that’s taken me years to understand?"

  I glance up briefly. His brow is furrowed, not in suspicion exactly, but in that sharp curiosity of a craftsman watching someone handle his trade like they were born to it.

  My fingers keep moving—sliding the gear into place, making minute adjustments—because stopping now would risk losing the rhythm.

  I keep your eyes on the mechanism, sliding a pin back into its groove before answering.

  "My homeland, far away from here, had the same idea as these clocks,"i say, voice steady but quieter than before. "When I was a kid, I grew up learning how to make simple fixes. My grandfather owned a shop much like this… smaller, though."

  The image is clear in your mind—dust motes in sunlit air, the smell of polished wood, and rows of clocks, each with their own heartbeat.

  "Thing was," you continue, easing the warped cog free from the seagull clock, "back home, these kinds of inventions never caught on.

  No one trusted them, not without the right people backing the work. My grandfather didn’t have that, so when he passed, the shop closed… and his work died with him."

  *i place the new gear in carefully, letting it mesh with the others. My tone softens. "I was left to carry the knowledge. I guess it’s the one thing I’ve never been willing to let go of."

  Gerrick doesn’t reply immediately. He’s watching your hands now, his usual gruffness dimmed by something more thoughtful.

  Gerrick says nothing, his arms folded, but i can feel his gaze tracking every precise movement i make. The silence in the shop shifts—not heavy with suspicion, but weighted with a craftsman’s attention, the kind given when someone’s work is worth watching.

  

  I set my watch aside and begin aligning the repaired mechanism inside the seagull clock’s warped housing. Each gear slots into place with a faint click, the movement smooth now instead of fighting against itself. I wind it gently, listening for the telltale stutter… but it doesn’t come.

  

  The hands begin to turn—slowly at first, then with steady precision, matching the heartbeat of my watch almost perfectly. After a few moments, the seagull inside twitches, creaks forward, and lets out a comically off-key squawk before retreating back into its crooked little door.

  

  I step back from the bench, wiping my hands on a rag, and set the seagull clock upright. Its tick is steady now, each second falling neatly into the next.

  Gerrick doesn’t speak, just narrows his eyes at the clock like he’s trying to catch it making a mistake. The shop falls quiet except for its rhythmic beat and the faint metallic creak of the seagull shifting inside.

  Outside, the street noise carries faintly—cart wheels over cobblestone, a vendor calling out their wares—until a deep, resonant tone cuts through it all. The town bell. The hour strikes.

  Both Gerrick and I watch the clock’s hands as the bell rings. They reach the exact mark at the exact moment, the sound and the mechanism perfectly in sync.

  Gerrick exhales through his nose, a sound halfway between a sigh and a grunt, but his eyes don’t leave the clock.

  The bell’s last note fades, and Gerrick finally tears his eyes away from the clock. Without a word, he reaches into his apron and pulls out four silver coins, dropping them into your palm with a solid clink.

  "You earned it," he says, his voice gruff but steady. Then, after a pause, he adds, "Mister… I know you’re new in town. But I’ll be honest with you—"he jerks his chin toward the rows of clocks in various states of disrepair "—I’ve got backing here in Springvale. Enough to keep the shop running, anyway. Problem is, all my clocks break down after a week. And I’ve got a backlog of repairs that’s starting to make me look like a fool."

  His gaze locks on me, that earlier curiosity now sharpened into something closer to need.

  "Please… could you teach me how you managed to fix this? Show me the technique, the way you handled those gears. I’ll pay

  Can you give me a day or two to think about it?"

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  I say, slipping the coins into my pocket.

  "I’m staying at The Lantern’s Rest, so I won’t be leaving town anytime soon."

  I start to step back from the counter, already planning how i might leverage Gerrick’s offer later—then it hits me like a dropped anvil.

  "…Oh crap,"i mutter under your breath, just loud enough for Gerrick to give me a curious look.

  "What?"he asks.

  "I forgot to pay to upkeep my room for the week," i say to myself, shaking my head. "Only paid for the night."

  The realization sits in my stomach. Four silver in your pocket now, sure… but im going to be burning through it fast if i don’t start thinking ahead.

  You thank Gerrick once more, pocketing the silver, and push open the shop door. The morning light greets you, warm against your face as you step out into the street.

  I start toward The Lantern’s Rest, already rehearsing how to sweet-talk the innkeeper into giving me a fair rate for the week, when something prickles at the back of my neck.

  I slow. To my right, down the narrow alley wedged between Gerrick’s shop and the neighboring stable, the shadows are thicker. For just a moment—barely more than a heartbeat—i think i see them: two faint, glowing amber eyes watching from the gloom.

  My chest tightens. I blink, and they’re gone. The alley is empty now, just a damp stone wall and a few stacked crates.

  You force yourself to keep walking, resisting the urge to glance back down the alley. The coins in my pocket feel heavier now, each step toward The Lantern’s Rest measured and deliberate.

  Still, my thoughts stray to those amber eyes. She’s watching again. Not approaching, not speaking—just appearing and vanishing like a shadow. What is her game?

  If she wanted to hurt me, she’s had chances. If she wanted to talk, she’s had opportunities. So why this silent dance? Testing me? Warning me? Or maybe… just making sure you’re still here.

  By the time the inn comes into view, im no closer to an answer.

  I step into The Lantern’s Rest, the warm smell of stewing vegetables and fresh bread greeting you again. The red-haired innkeeper looks up from behind the counter as you approach.

  "Back for more nights, are you?" he says.

  "Yeah, just a couple for now i reply, setting a few coins on the counter.

  He scratches his beard, then shakes his head. "Room three’s not available anymore. Had a noble and his retinue come in this morning—they wanted ground floor for easier access. Paid triple rate, so…" He shrugs unapologetically.

  "So where does that leave me?" you ask.

  "Second floor, room eight. Bit smaller, but i get a view of the street. Price is the same."

  I take the new key, the brass cool against my palm, and make my way upstairs. The second floor is quieter, but i can feel every creak of the wood under my boots. Room eight is tidy enough—bed, small desk, and a window overlooking the busy street below instead of the shadowed alley.

  I drop my satchel onto the bed and glance toward the window. The view is nothing like before—no narrow alley, no deep shadows for someone to hide in. Just the street below, alive with the noise of merchants and passersby.

  A thought creeps in, unbidden.

  "How will my visitor watch me tonight?"

  I murmur under my breath, the corner of my mouth curling into a smirk.

  If she really wanted to keep an eye on me, this change of scenery will force her to get creative. And part of me is curious—curious enough to wonder if she’ll find a way.

  My gaze drifts from the brass key to the window, and, inevitably, my thoughts slip toward Luna. The way she appeared in the woods. The glowing amber eyes in the alley. The single word she’d given me, like a breadcrumb on a trail i weren’t sure i were meant to follow.

  m halfway through wondering if she might try again tonight when a sudden commotion cuts through my thoughts—shouting, the heavy thud of boots on cobblestone, the clatter of something knocked over.

  I push off the bed and cross to the window. Below, in the street near the corner of the inn, a figure bursts from a narrow alleyway. Even at a distance, even in motion, i know that silhouette—slender, ears flicking back as she runs, tail snapping through the air.

  Luna.

  Two city guards are in pursuit, their armor clinking as they barrel after her. She darts around a startled cart driver, vanishing into another alley, the guards close behind.

  I stay at the window, leaning just enough to keep them in sight without drawing attention to yourself. Luna darts through the maze of side streets like she was born there, her movements sharp and sure. The guards are quick, but she’s quicker—slipping through gaps too narrow for their armor, vaulting a low wall, and vanishing behind a stacked row of crates.

  The guards skid to a stop, scanning the area before splitting up, one heading further down the street while the other doubles back. Neither seems to notice they’ve lost her entirely.

  Im about to step back when another movement catches your eye—a familiar figure slipping out from a narrow side alley opposite the chase. Dark blue tunic. Leather gloves. The same unhurried, deliberate walk i've seen before.

  Jack.

  He glances briefly in the direction Luna vanished, then turns down a quieter, narrower lane, disappearing from view without a word to the guards.

  I keep my eyes on the street, resisting the urge to bolt after Jack. The city’s noise settles back into its usual rhythm—vendors calling, wagon wheels rattling—but i stay still, scanning the alleys.

  A few long moments pass. Then, from between two leaning buildings across the way, a slim shape emerges. Luna.

  She doesn’t step fully into the street, just far enough for the light to catch the ragged edges of her clothes and those unmistakable amber eyes. Her gaze sweeps the area once—brief, calculating—then lands on The Lantern’s Rest. On your window.

  It’s only a second, maybe two, but it’s deliberate. And then she’s gone again, melting into the shadows as if she’d never been there at all.

  You step back from the window, her brief appearance still sharp in your mind. She’d looked directly at The Lantern’s Rest—directly at you. That wasn’t an accident.

  If she’s keeping to her silent game, then so will i… but that doesn’t mean i'll sit and wait this time. Tonight, i’ll go looking for her on my terms.

  As evening settles over Springvale, the market noise fades into the softer sounds of tavern music and distant laughter. The moonlight spills across the cobblestones, and i slip out of the inn, keeping to the quieter streets.

  I don’t call her name, don’t leave obvious signs—i just walk with purpose, glancing down alleys, pausing in spots where you might be watched.

  It’s a strange kind of hunt—less chasing and more… inviting. Each time i stop, or linger just long enough to give her the chance to show herself before moving on.And i can’t help but feel that, somewhere in the shadows above or behind me, those amber eyes are already tracking your every step.

  The streets are quiet enough now that the smallest sounds stand out. You move at an unhurried pace, eyes scanning every shadow. At first, nothing—just the moonlight on stone and the occasional flicker of a lantern in a shop window.

  Then i catch it—just a whisper of movement ahead. A tail, long and sleek, vanishing around a corner before i can get more than a glimpse. I follow, turning that same corner, but there’s nothing waiting for you except the faint sound of a footstep retreating into the dark.

  Further along, i pause at a crossroad of narrow alleys. To my left, for the barest moment, an amber eye peers around a stack of crates. The instant i focus on it, it’s gone, replaced by shadow.

  It keeps happening—little flashes at the edge of my vision. A shadow slipping along a rooftop. A soft scrape of movement just behind me that fades the second i turn my head. Always close enough to be sure it’s her, never close enough to make contact.

  By the time i circle back toward the Lantern’s Rest, the moon is high, and i know with certainty she’s been with me the whole time… just never within reach.

  You’re about to turn back toward the Lantern’s Rest when you notice something different about the rhythm of her appearances. The glimpses aren’t random anymore—they’re spaced, deliberate, each one pulling you just a little farther from the inn.

  A flick of a tail disappearing around the next corner. A quick flash of amber eyes from a shadowed archway. The soft pat of a footstep ahead, just loud enough for me to follow.

  I move after them without a word, my own footsteps measured, making sure i don’t close the distance too quickly. Every time i reach where i saw her last, there’s a new glimpse, always ahead, always urging me onward.

  The streets grow quieter as i go, the lanternlight thinning until you’re walking under long stretches of moonlit stone. I pass closed shops, darkened windows, and alleyways that seem to breathe shadows.

  Then i notice—im heading toward the older part of Springvale, where the buildings lean close and the streets twist like a maze. A place where fewer guards patrol… and where a meeting could happen unseen.

  You follow the trail of glimpses, trying to piece together the pattern—are you circling the city? Closing in on a landmark? But the alleys twist and double back, the buildings blurring into one another in the dim moonlight. Whatever route she’s taking, it’s designed to keep me guessing.

  Then the trail stops. No flick of a tail. No sound of movement.

  I glance around, senses prickling—and that’s when i see her.

  She’s perched on the edge of a rooftop above you, outlined in silver by the moon. Her amber eyes are fixed on something down the street, and when my gaze meets hers, she lifts one arm and points.

  I follow the line of her gesture… and my stomach knots.

  Rolling slowly down the cobbled road is the same wagon i saw on my first day in Springvale. The heavy wooden frame, the iron bars, the clink of chains—it’s all the same. But this time, there are more people inside. Many look beaten down and hollow-eyed. A few clutch each other tightly, and one or two are crying softly into their sleeves.

  The horses’ hooves strike the stones in a steady rhythm, the driver’s face shadowed by his hood. Two armed guards walk alongside, their expressions unreadable.