litlinks 2025

The Clockmaker’s Secret

by Srinika Singh, Gold Creek School

The village of Aramoor was quiet, tucked between rolling hills and silver rivers. Yet, at its heart stood a peculiar little shop – a clock shop, to be precise. Its wooden sign simply read: ‘Time Repaired Here’.

Everyone knew the shop’s owner, Mr. Devansh. He was old, with a snowy beard and spectacles that forever slid down his nose. No one remembered when he had arrived in the village, but his clocks ticked in every home. Some villagers swore his clocks never broke. Some whispered they could do more than tell time.

For Aarav, a curious ninth grader, the shop was a palace of mystery. Unlike his classmates, who cared more about football and phones, Aarav loved puzzles, hidden meanings and stories.

One rainy evening, Aarav found himself sheltering in Mr. Devansh’s shop. The air smelled of varnished wood and metal oil. Hundreds of clocks ticked around him in perfect rhythm, like a thousand beating hearts.

“You’re fascinated by time, aren’t you?” the old man said, adjusting a tiny gear with delicate fingers.

Aarav shrugged. “I’m fascinated by… mysteries.”

The old man chuckled. “Then perhaps it’s time I show you one.”

He reached under the counter and brought out a peculiar clock, unlike any Aarav had seen. Its hands spun backwards, and at its centre glowed a faint blue light.

“What is that?” Aarav whispered.

Mr. Devansh’s eyes twinkled. “A clock that doesn’t just tell time, it rewinds it.”

Aarav’s breath caught. “You mean… it can take me back?”

The old man nodded. “But only once. And only for ten minutes.”

Aarav’s mind raced. Ten minutes. A chance to fix a mistake, undo a regret. His thoughts flew to his father. Just two months earlier, his father had passed away suddenly. Their last conversation had been a fight. Aarav had shouted that he didn’t need his advice, then stormed off. The quiet burned inside him every day.

His voice trembled, “Can I… can I use it?”

Mr. Devansh studied him for a long moment, then pressed the clock into his hands. “Choose your moment wisely, child. Time is a gift, not a toy.”

Aarav’s heart pounded as he twisted the dial. The world around him blurred, and it was two months earlier. His father stood there, alive, adjusting his tie for work.

Aarav’s throat tightened up. “What is it, Aarav?”

“Dad?”  he whispered.

His father looked up, surprised. “What is it, Aarav?”

For a moment, words failed him. Then he rushed forward and hugged his father tightly. “I’m sorry,” Aarav choked out. “I didn’t mean what I said that day. I do need you. I need you more than anything.”

His father’s arms wrapped around him, strong and warm. “Hey it’s okay,” he said softly. “We fight, but nothing changes the fact that you’re my son. And I’m proud of you.”

Tears streamed down Aarav’s face. He wanted to freeze this moment forever. But already, the world around him was fading, the clock pulling him back.

When Aarav opened his eyes, he was back in the shop. The blue glow of the clock was gone; it was now just an ordinary piece of wood and gears.

The old man watched him silently.

Aarav wiped his tears, but there was a small smile on his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Mr. Devansh nodded. “Time cannot bring back the dead, but it can heal the living. You’ll carry that moment in your heart forever.”

The rain outside had stopped. As Aarav stepped out of the shop, the air felt fresher, lighter. He knew his father was gone, but for the first time in months, the guilt had lifted. In its place was something stronger: peace.

The next day, Aarav returned to the shop, but it was gone. No signboard, no clocks, nothing but an empty hatch of ground where it had once stood.

The villagers insisted there had never been a clockmaker in Aramoor. Aarav said nothing. He simply touched his chest where the ticking of countless clocks seemed to echo, reminding him that some mysteries are not meant to be solved, only cherished.

And whenever guilt or sadness weighed him down, he would close his eyes and remember his father’s voice: “I’m proud of you.”

In the end, Aarav realised, the most precious gift is not the time itself but the moments we choose to hold onto.

The village of Aramoor was quiet, tucked between rolling hills and silver rivers. Yet, at its heart stood a peculiar little shop – a clock shop, to be precise. Its wooden sign simply read: “Time Repaired Here”.

Everyone knew the shop’s owner, Mr. Devansh. He was old, with a snowy beard and spectacles that forever slid down his nose. No one remembered when he had arrived in the village, but his clocks ticked in every home. Some villagers swore his clocks never broke. Some whispered they could do more than tell time.

For Aarav, a curious ninth grader, the shop was a palace of mystery. Unlike his classmates, who cared more about football and phones, Aarav loved puzzles, hidden meanings, and stories.

One rainy evening, Aarav found himself sheltering in Mr. Devansh’s shop. The air smelled of varnished wood and metal oil. Hundreds of clocks ticked around him in perfect rhythm, like a thousand beating hearts.

“You’re fascinated by time, aren’t you?” the old man said, adjusting a tiny gear with delicate fingers.

Aarav shrugged, “I’m fascinated by… mysteries.”

The old man chuckled. “Then perhaps it’s time I show you one.”

He reached under the counter and brought out a peculiar clock, unlike any Aarav had seen. Its hands spun backwards, and at its centre glowed a faint blue light.

“What is that?” Aarav whispered.

Mr. Devansh’s eyes twinkled. “A clock that doesn’t just tell time, it rewinds it.”

Aarav’s breath caught. “You mean… it can take me back?”

The old man nodded. “But only once. And only for ten minutes.”

Aarav’s mind raced. Ten minutes. A chance to fix a mistake, undo a regret. His thoughts flew to his father. Just two months earlier, his father had passed away suddenly. Their last conversation had been a fight. Aarav had shouted that he didn’t need his advice, then stormed off. The quiet burned inside him every day.

His voice trembled, “Can I… can I use it?”

Mr. Devansh studied him for a long moment, then pressed the clock into his hands. “Choose your moment wisely, child. Time is a gift, not a toy.”

Aarav’s heart pounded as he twisted the dial. The world around him blurred, and it was two months earlier. His father stood there, alive, adjusting his tie for work.

Aarav’s throat tightened up. “What is it, Aarav?”

“Dad?”  he whispered.

His father looked up, surprised. “What is it, Aarav?”

For a moment, words failed him. Then he rushed forward and hugged his father tightly. “I’m sorry,” Aarav choked out. “I didn’t mean what I said that day. I do need you. I need you more than anything.”

His father’s arms wrapped around him, strong and warm. “Hey it’s okay,” he said softly. “We fight, but nothing changes the fact that you’re my son. And I’m proud of you.”

Tears streamed down Aarav’s face. He wanted to freeze this moment forever. But already, the world around him was fading, the clock pulling him back.

When Aarav opened his eyes, he was back in the shop. The blue glow of the clock was gone; it was now just an ordinary piece of wood and gears.

The old man watched him silently.

Aarav wiped his tears, but there was a small smile on his lips. “Thank you,” he whispered.

Mr. Devansh nodded. “Time cannot bring back the dead, but it can heal the living. You’ll carry that moment in your heart forever.”

The rain outside had stopped. As Aarav stepped out of the shop, the air felt fresher, lighter. He knew his father was gone but for the first time in months, the guilt had lifted. In its place was something stronger: peace.

The next day, Aarav returned to the shop, but it was gone. No signboard, no clocks, nothing but an empty hatch of ground where it had once stood.

The villagers insisted there had never been a clockmaker in Aramoor. Aarav said nothing. He simply touched his chest, where the ticking of countless clocks seemed to echo, reminding him that some mysteries are not meant to be solved, only cherished.

And whenever guilt or sadness weighed him down, he would close his eyes and remember his father’s voice. “I’m proud of you.”

In the end, Aarav realised, the most precious gift was not the time itself but the moments we choose to hold onto.