The clockmaker from the house by the river

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It was the hour when the light turns golden. When the sky flows like warm honey over the treetops and the water begins to reflect beneath the sails of the boats. Then Auenquell becomes quiet. A place between the world and the premonition – and no one knew this better than the Clockmaker. At the edge of the village, where the river slows briefly, stands his house. A crooked, angled building with a bent door, tall windows, and a roof that looks as if it wants to whisper stories. People called it "the Heart of Time." And anyone who stood before it knew why: gears entwined like branches over the shutters, a brass clock sat enthroned above the arched doorway, and smoke never rose from the chimney – only fine, sparkling steam. Ephran Drell was his name. An old man with long, white hair, a round face, a green vest, and a quiet gaze that seemed to see through things. He always wore glasses with tiny screws on the sides. And the scent of apple tea and machine oil always hung around him like a cloak of memories. Those who visited him—and many did—never just received a repaired watch. He got a piece of time back. A woman once brought him a music box whose song her daughter had forgotten. When she picked it up, it played not only the melody but also the laughter of the child from back then. An old fisherman asked him to build a clock that would only strike when his son was thinking of him. And a young man brought a pocket watch that never kept time correctly—until Ephran set it to "When she waits." That evening, the watchmaker sat on his wooden veranda by the river. In front of him on the table stood a mechanical bird—made of polished copper, with a chased wooden comb and wings in which light reflections danced. Ephran adjusted the wings, checked the spring core, and wound the movement. Then he let go—and the bird beat its wings, blinked, and emitted a soft, crystal-clear chirp. Not a sound of nature—more like a song of gears. The ships that glided by were not ordinary. Their hulls were made of dark wood with fine brass veins, their sails embroidered with tiny ornaments. Gears adorned their prows, and as they passed in the twilight, it sounded as if they brought stories from another age. The sailors waved to Ephran, some shouted greetings, others tossed small repair pieces onto the shore grass. In his house, everything was in motion. Small pendulums moved like leaves in the wind. On one wall hung a clock that measured sunsets, on another one that counted dreams. In a dusty glass case, a globe with tiny planets slowly rotated—it ran precisely according to the calendar of forgotten moons. The children of Waterspring did not fear him. They loved him. Especially when he let his birds fly over the marketplace – not live animals, but small flying machines made of wire, wood, and light.