Lily Stella ‘25
In the heart of a small village nestled among mountains, there lived an old man named Ivan. Ivan was a man of many mysteries and talents, but his most remarkable skill was crafting clocks. But his clocks were no ordinary clocks; they were made to track a person’s lifespan. Every clock was unique, a handcrafted piece of art that ticked with a peculiar rhythm, a reflection of the person’s life. Each villager had their own clock. Some wore small timepieces around their necks, while others hung grand clocks on their walls, each ticking steadily, guarding moments long past or yet to come. Ivan worked tirelessly each day from dawn until dusk, carving, shaping, and setting the delicate mechanisms in motion.
One day, as winter’s chill crept into the village, a young girl named Mara came to Ivan’s shop. Ivan, who was seated at his workbench, heard a soft knock and went to answer. He opened the door to find Mara shivering on his doorstep, her cheeks rosy from the frozen air. Her wide eyes were fixed on him with a gaze that was far too serious for a girl her age.
“Mara,” he greeted warmly, for he knew everyone in the village. “What brings you here today?”
Mara took a deep breath, clutching the edges of her coat tightly. “Mr. Ivan, I need your help.” She didn’t miss the hint of surprise that passed over his face.
He opened the door wider. “Come in, child. The wind’s far too cold to be standing outside. You’ll freeze.”
Mara stepped into the shop, gazing at the shelves lined with countless clocks.
“To what do I owe the pleasure?” Ivan asked, settling into his chair.
Mara hesitated, twisting her fingers together nervously. She cast a glance at a large clock with a glass face staring down at her from the wall. Behind the glass, small silver stars ticked around a crescent moon that marked the hours. It was mesmerizing, just like the rest of the devices that lined the shelves.
Finally, she spoke. “It’s about my father… he’s very sick. The doctor says he may not get better.”
Ivan’s face softened. He knew Mara’s father well, Tomas—a kind man who had once been strong and lively but had grown frail over the years. “I’m sorry to hear that, Mara. Your father is a good man.”
She nodded before reaching into her coat and pulling out a small pocketwatch. He recognized it instantly as Tomas’s clock. “That’s why I came to you. I…I think his clock may be running out soon. Please, Mr. Ivan…” She took a breath. “Can you change it?”
“Change it?” he repeated, surprised.
Mara’s voice grew more desperate, looking at him with pleading eyes and forcing the clock into his hands. “Just… turn it back a little. Give him more time. He’s not ready to go yet.” She paused. “I’m not ready.”
Ivan looked down at the pocket watch, a pang of sorrow in his heart. He ran a hand down his face, sighing softly. “Mara, life and death are beyond my control. These clocks reflect the time given to each of us. I don’t decide how they tick.”
“But you make them!” Mara argued, her voice breaking. “You’re the one who sets the time. If you made them, can’t you change them?”
Ivan shook his head. “It’s not that simple, my dear. Tampering with time itself can be dangerous.”
Mara’s eyes filled with tears. She looked down, her small hands clenching her coat as though it might protect her from the hurt inside. “Please,” she whispered softly. “Please, Mr. Ivan. I don’t have anything to give, but… he’s all I have.”
Ivan’s heart ached at her words. For years, he had been the custodian of time in the village, watching the lives of each person pass: some swiftly, others slowly. But he had always abided by the rule he had set for himself—never to interfere. Time was sacred, and to meddle with it could bring unforeseen consequences. Yet here was Mara, so young and so desperate, pleading with him to save her father.
He sighed. “Stay here,” he said finally. He crossed into a different room, examining Tomas’s clock, seeing the faint, golden light that pulsed within it. It was true—Tomas’s time was running low.
Ivan took a deep breath.
“Mara,” he said softly, “I can’t promise anything, but I’ll try.”
Her face lit up with a mixture of hope and relief. “Thank you, Mr. Ivan. Thank you.”
Ivan carefully lifted Tomas’s clock and placed it on his workbench. With a precision born of years of practice, he opened the glass casing, revealing the delicate gears and springs within. He took a small tool and Mara watched, her breath held, as Ivan gently turned back the hands of her father’s clock.
“Thank you,” she whispered again when he was done.
Ivan closed the clock and handed it to her carefully. “Now, take this home. And take care of it, Mara.”
She closed her fingers around it as if it was the most fragile thing in the world. “I will,” she promised. She held the clock to her chest, and with a grateful smile, she hurried out of the shop, disappearing into the evening mist.
Weeks passed, and soon, word spread through the village that Tomas was recovering, much to the astonishment of the villagers. One cold evening, Ivan found himself walking through the cobblestone streets of the quaint town. It was nearly Christmas, and a soft snow had begun to fall in the past few days. As he walked, he caught sight of a familiar house.
Through the small, warmly lit window, Ivan saw Mara and Tomas sitting together by the fire. Tomas, looking stronger and livelier than he had in years, laughed heartily with his arm wrapped around his daughter. The fire painted their faces in soft shades of gold, illuminating Mara’s smile, which was wide and full of joy. Ivan watched them, feeling a mixture of pride and melancholy. They had been given more time together—a gift that he knew was rare and precious. As he lingered by the window, he could feel the warmth of their happiness reaching him even from afar.
Satisfied, he turned and began the walk back to his shop, the weight of what he had done resting gently in his heart. As he stepped inside his shop, the familiar ticking of the clocks enveloped him. Ivan reached up to the high shelf where his own clock rested—a simple, unadorned piece, one he’d crafted for himself years ago.
He lifted it down carefully and cradled it in his hands, listening to its steady ticking. His eyes traced the hands of his clock, and he noticed something that he had felt but not yet acknowledged: the hands had shifted ever so slightly. His clock was just a bit lighter, the ticking a touch faster than it had been before.
He gave a small smile. “So, I gave a little more than I thought,” he murmured to himself, yet he felt no regret. “It seems that time asks for its own price, even from an old clockmaker.”