Breglio and the Clockmaker Some clocks don't show what was,but what might have been

More about Breglio and the Clockmaker Some clocks don't show what was,but what might have been

It was an hour between the hours when Breglio reached the narrow valley, hidden like a fold in the landscape. Mist hung in thin threads between the trees, and the lantern in his small hand flickered, even though there was no wind. He had followed the ticking. Or rather, the lack of it. A strange silence had drawn him there—not emptiness, but the feeling that something was wrong. As if a once-important clock were missing somewhere. At the end of the path stood a house that seemed like something from a bygone era: tilted at an angle, with gears in the window frames and a weather vane that knew no compass direction. The air smelled of old oil and dusty resin. The door opened by itself, slowly, with a creak. Breglio entered. Inside: wall upon wall of clocks – large, small, wooden, glass, some merely silhouettes of themselves. But none showed the time. None had hands. Their digits seemed to be listening, not counting. In the center of the room stood an old man. Or what remained of one who had lived too long between seconds. His skin was parchment-thin, his fingers like watch keys. His eyes were gears, slowly turning, as if trying to remind him. "You're late," he said, without looking at Breglio. "I'm never on time," Breglio replied."Then you're the one." The clockmaker led him deeper into the house, past a pendulum hanging silently in the air. In a windowless room stood a single clock. Large, upright, carved from black wood – but it, too, without hands. Instead, its face was a circle of light. "This clock measures possibilities," the old man said. "Not what was, but what could have been. Every missed decision, every path not taken." Breglio stepped closer. In the circle of light, he saw images. A younger imp, laughing, calling—a fire that was never lit—a shadow that followed him, even though he was never there. "Why are the hands missing?" asked Breglio. The watchmaker smiled without a mouth. "Because no one is ready to know. The moment we realize what could have been is the moment we might lose the courage to do it differently." "And if you still want to see?" The old man took something from his breast pocket: a tiny glass hand tip. He handed it to Breglio. "Then set it yourself. But know this: as soon as you insert it, the clock begins to count—not forward, but backward. You will see what could have been. And you will have to decide if you can live with it." Breglio held the glass hand in his hand. It was almost weightless—and yet it seemed to carry a past that was not his. He stepped to the clock, raised his hand—and paused. "I think... I'd rather move on." He handed the clock hand back to the old man. "I'm collecting wishes. No regrets." The clockmaker nodded. "Then you'll remain free." When Breglio left the house, it was as if he had never been there. The fog lifted, and his lantern burned quietly again. But somewhere, deep within him, a quiet possibility ticked on—without a hand, without direction. But not without hope.