Category: Current Issue Writing

Hope Luebbe Davidson ‘25

Looking out the window just as you’ve woken up, everything is covered in a blanket of white. For a minute, the world around you is silent and still. But all your memories triggered by the sight of the snow are loud and colorful. Waking up on the first snow day is like a trip down memory lane; a smile comes to your face without you even knowing it, recalling all the fun you’ve had in previous years.

Snow holds memories—so many of them, each very different from the next. Articulated by the famous Disney snowman, “Water has memory”—and snow has memory too. Water vapor in the atmosphere freezes into tiny ice crystals. Beautiful and unique snowflakes are formed. Their intricate structure is destroyed shortly after, as millions of tiny crystals are packed into snowballs. As the snowballs multiply faster and faster, ammo is being created.

The tricky part is finding a hiding spot for the substantial number of snowballs. Making snow forts is the best way to prepare for the annual snowball fight. At first sight, snow seems soft and beautiful, but it can get quite chaotic. Fun is always had in the snow, but in your adventurous and fun-loving family, chaos is always evident. As the snowballs are packed together tighter and tighter, they are thrown harder and harder as we get older.

Once your day of fun is over, you go inside and thaw from the inside out with steaming hot chocolate. The warmth seeps into your fingertips as you cradle the mug, and your ears and face are still red from the cold outside. As you settle into the cozy indoors, the snow outside fades into the background, but the echoes of laughter and the sight of rosy, smiling faces remain vivid, transforming into cherished memories that leave behind nothing but warmth and smiles. It’s funny how snow transforms from a battleground to fun memories surrounded by white in a matter of moments.

The top layer of snow melts in the winter sunshine during the day and freezes in the chill of the night. Waking up to the driveway turned into an ice rink. Falling and slipping, but most importantly, laughing and smiling. Snow brings the coldest winters but also brings the warmest of hugs, smiles, and laughs.

Fiona Bianchi ‘25

           I love winter; I love whatever season I am living in. I love the wind, the cold, the rain, ice, snow, and darkness; I love the quiet. I love the dark because it makes me enjoy what little light there is all the more; I love the quiet; it makes me excited for spring when the birds sing again. The cold allows me to bundle up and I can enjoy nice warm drinks in the coziest of places better than if it were summer or any other season.

           You say you hate the winter, hate the cold, the dark, the rain, and quiet. Sometimes I wonder if only you say that to be agreeable with the people you are around. I see you find yourself longing for the next season for all the things you can do in it and never enjoying the one you’re in. You say you hate how you can never warm up, never dry off, never get cozy. You say you miss hearing the birds, looking for them wherever we go.

           I love Christmas because of the gifts and jokes my household family gives to each other, and the empty time I can fill with them over the break.

           You say you hate Christmas because your larger family never gets along long enough to be together for an evening. You hate all the extra time because you are afraid to waste it on things you fear you won’t enjoy. You don’t know what to do with yourself.

           I love the snow, and you love the snow, yet you still say you hate winter. You are sad for the birds and say you miss them, but once they come back in spring you get annoyed when they wake you up with their shrieks, melodies, and greetings.

           I hate school and its rigid schedules, conflicts, and petty disturbances, but you, you love school; you love its schedule and assignments that give you things to do, keep you on a routine, and keep you talking to the same people; you like the repetition. I hate it; I hate it in all its lumbering hindrance, but I love you.

Jimmy Nguyen ‘25

Soft, slushy, snow. Snow is like a once in a lifetime experience in Seattle. It snows once every blue moon; that is how rare it is, sort of like a random Pokémon card that you unwrapped, trashing it away, not realizing that it was an extremely rare card that cost a pretty penny.

***

The cold nights sipping hot cocoa, a heavy weight filled with boredom dropping on the computer mouse repeating over and over and over until the show “Snowdrop” caught my eye. I dropped into the first episode and realized that I might’ve dropped too far down when I became disinterested immediately after the first episode.

***

Snow. I remember the feeling in the winter of 7th grade seeing the shiny, sparkly, almost ethereal droplets of white balls and the occasional snowflake, before any people dropped like snowflakes due to COVID-19. The COVID-19 virus affected everyone no matter what. Family members departing, social events decreasing, school interrupted. This was truly the worst. As I reflect on this moment, was the snow a gift to Seattle before COVID-19 spread throughout the whole city?

***

In Bruges. Two hitmen, Ray and Ken, fled to Bruges, Belgium after a hit mission on a priest was successful but accidentally killed a little child in the process as well. Ray was the one that shot. The boss (we’ll call him Harry) wasn’t too happy about it, because it broke his code on not harming any children. Harry wanted Ray in Bruges during Christmas time to have a happy moment before his inevitable demise, dropped by the crew of hitmen. Through the final moments of the movie, it cuts to a scene. Bang, bang: Harry chases Ray while Ray stumbles to get away; it was snowing, a contrast between the hot, steaming blood and deep exhalation of each breath Ray took, to ultimately having Ray being shot in the back several times.

***

This is all over the place, I thought; as I looked out to the road and saw solid, hard and compact snow brushed up to each side of the roadway, I realized that maybe I didn’t want snow and that I was entranced by the magical idea of snow. It proved to me that it is merely a nuisance to everyday life; when the roads get icy and mushy, it forces us to stay in quarantine against the world. I’m realizing that it was uncommon in Seattle, for sure, but is it a pretty penny, or just a regular nickel?

Marcus Kwon ‘25

           The sound of a basketball bouncing on pavement is like music. Rhythmic, steady, imperfect. The echo carries through my memory like a song I’ve always known. I’m 18 now, but I can still see my 11-year-old self chasing that ball down the driveway, the hoop bent slightly down from dunks by kids with bigger dreams and stronger arms than mine.

           I’ve always loved basketball, not for the glory but for the reliable sport. It started with neighborhood games. My dribble was weak, my shot flatter than it should’ve been, but I showed up. That’s what mattered. Kids I’d never spoken to became teammates. Each pass and rebound stitched us closer. Winning didn’t matter as much as laughing together after a bad play or cheering for someone else’s good one.

           By middle school, I knew I wasn’t going to be an NBA star. Genetics dealt me a hand too short and too slow, and my heart, though full of passion, wasn’t ready to endure the grind of endless drills and conditioning. I’d watch my friends sweat and hustle, their eyes set on varsity dreams, while I lingered on the sidelines, happy to shoot hoops during lunch breaks and pick-up games.

           There’s a kind of beauty in knowing your limits. I stopped trying to measure up to the impossible and started playing for the joy of it. Each jump shot was a small victory, each layup a moment to savor. The court became my sanctuary, the orange rim a quiet therapist that never judged. High school brought more struggles, responsibilities, and things to worry about. Stress mounted with each exam, each expectation. Some nights, it felt like the walls were closing in, like there wasn’t enough time in the day. Sometimes I would wish that time would stop and give me a break. But then I’d grab a ball and go shoot around. The troubles of the day faded into the background, replaced by the simplicity of the game. A basketball is the most reliable thing in the world—you bounce it, and it always comes back. It doesn’t argue with you or complain, and it always listens.

           I met people there too. Strangers who became friends, if only for a night. We didn’t need to know each other’s names. We just played. They taught me new moves, and I taught them my old ones. There’s something universal about a sport that needs no words, just a ball, a hoop, and a willingness to play. 

           Even now, basketball is my constant. It doesn’t matter that I’ll never be the fastest or the strongest on the court. It doesn’t matter that my jump shot sometimes veers left or that I can’t dunk. What matters is the freedom I feel when I step onto that pavement, the way the world seems to shrink to the size of a basketball, and nothing else exists but me and the game. I’m not playing to win trophies or make headlines. I’m playing because it reminds me of who I am. A kid who’s still learning, still growing, still chasing that ball down the driveway. And that, I think, is enough.

Blake Koehler ‘25

           In my opinion, winter is the most interesting season of the year, yet also the calmest and most boring season. I see winter as the season to put in the hard work, the season that you can put in your blood, sweat, and tears to accomplish your goals. It can be very monotonous at times to do the same thing every day, not to mention the gloomy weather that makes you feel as if you have no hope left in your soul. A trend I have been seeing on social media recently is going on your “winter arc.” This means you will try as hard as you can to accomplish your goals during the winter and stay away from things that might be dragging you down. Winter is interesting to me because I find myself alone with a lot of time to reflect on myself.

           Spring is my least favorite season of the year. Most of spring is still quite cold but never enough to cause a raging blizzard. I see spring as a lesser version of winter. Spring is like the end of a cross-country race going in with one mile left ready to give it your all to finish. One thing that I do like about spring is how as the days go on the weather starts to get warmer and warmer. Every year during this time I remember my days in elementary school and how they would always say, “April shows bring May flowers.” As the school year is coming to an end, running low on gas, each day feels like we are getting one step closer to the finish line. Once you get there, you can cool off and take a deep breath knowing you have finished the race.

           For me, summer is a time to relax. A time to bask in the endless sunlight and take in the fresh air. It is a time of fun from the chaos of beaches, barbecues, and fireworks. Time feels slippery during the summer, melting away like popsicles on the pavement. From vacations to summer football camp, there are always places to be in the hot weather that will burn you to a crisp. Summer is loud and there is always something new and exciting on the way. It’s as if the sun’s intensity demands a version of myself I’m not always ready to give. Even with all its brightness, there is a shadow of exhaustion from the school year that lingers, reminding me that balance is necessary.

           Fall starts out loud, but as it goes on, it gets progressively quieter. I associate fall with American football: in the beginning, everyone is excited for the season to start, but as the season progresses I find myself losing interest. The crispness of fall air feels like an alarm clock going off after the lazy days of summer. Fall can set us back on our feet. Fall feels like a time of preparation, a middle ground between summer chaos and winter solitude. Fall holds October, the spookiest and scariest season of the year. In the fall I enjoy making my way through a corn maze without taking the map to guide me. After feasting at Thanksgiving dinner, the last leaf falls from the tree outside your house.

Beckham King ‘25

           The sound of an old-fashioned phone ringing loudly, echoing across my mind which was not fully conscious yet, but the only call was the one that was waking me up, my alarm. 6:00 am, I looked at my phone only to realize I was late; this was the second time this week I was going to be late to my morning basketball workout for school. I had to rush out of bed, skip breakfast, and speed to school. The workout was hard, and before I knew it my favorite part of the day was already over before the sun had even risen.

           School has been moving lazy; it’s the earliest part of the year, and even Halloween is still three weeks away. Life seems dull, boring, and there isn’t much to occupy myself with other than basketball and the occasional homework assignment. I was just waiting for something to happen, waiting for a change of pace. For things to finally pick up the pace again.

           One day I was enjoying my time at recess, the next I was on vacation, and before I could know it, it was the next year; grade after grade I am growing up, I don’t really realize it though because I am just having so much fun, not caring what comes next or what has happened but rather being pulled through time and instead of fighting it, savoring and enjoying it. But why must everything amazing move so fast? I am not sure what to think, everyone in the crowd cheering for me and my teammates, parents all screaming, whistles blowing, and yet I can’t hear anything, I’m not thinking, no stress, no care in the world other than winning. The biggest basketball game of my life and the only thing I can feel is euphoria, as if I have taken a drug, except it was doing the thing I love most.

           I am making shots I usually don’t consistently make, playing better defense than usual, using moves I’ve never even tried, and yet doing it all with no fear but unwavering confidence despite the 1000 mph winds of pressure raining down on me. I am in a trance, an unstoppable rhythm.

           Once we win I am drawn back to reality with amazing excitement for me and my teammates and all I can do is celebrate. It feels like 100 years’ worth of amazement in one moment. The first and only thought then enters my mind, “why can’t everything be done in this state of mind? Why can’t everything be at this perfect pace?”

Savannah Stack ‘25

           The rain is tracing down your face, and you smile because you get to experience something you know won’t last forever. That sensation, that moment you experience in time, is a fleeting instant that shall soon come to pass.

           This is September.

           It wasn’t like I wanted it to end. It had to end.

           October comes and goes. It is a weird sensation, slowly losing time knowing there is absolutely nothing a single person can do to keep it from fleeting.

           You carve dates on your brain like a knife into stone. In that instant, you hope to remember such a pleasant day forever. But in the next year, those starred boxes in your calendar roll around, the ones you forgot to erase, providing you with a stinging reminder that such a moment will never be lived again. You are burdened to remember the very things you wish you could forget.

           Here, it is November, December, and January.

           Looking back on what once felt endless to me, leaves me to scrunch my nose and furrow my brows. Thinking what I had was infinite was incredibly naive. There is nothing on this earth that truly lasts forever.

           I didn’t want it to end. Yet it was fated to reach a final page.  

           This is February and March.

           The worst type of pain is not a heart finally shattering, or the day you finally wake up knowing what you have is gone. The worst pain is not the final petal falling off the roses next to your bed, or reading the last page of your favorite novel. The worst pain is the process of watching the thing you love come to an inevitable end, with no way to gauge how much time it has left. It is the pain of choosing to keep space in your heart for something you are well aware won’t last your whole lifetime.

           When a flower sprouts from the ground, it requires a painfully delicate balance to live one more day. The sun and the rain must work together, or else that once tragically stunning plant will soon cease to exist. If there is too much sun, the flower dries out, leaving a shell of what it once was. If there is too much rain, the flower drowns in what it thought it needed to stay alive. Without an alike sense of dedication and intent, the sun and rain kill the flower, even if they are desperately trying to save it.

           I never thought it could end. But there I was on the other side of that door, willing you to come back, waiting for the sound of you knocking down the door. You never did.

           This is April.

           You prepare for this moment for as long as time itself. You don’t close your eyes when you should be sleeping because maybe you can slow down time for just a moment. You fantasize about scenarios of when that anticipated instant finally catches you. What will you do? What do you say? What happens after the end? You prepare, but you’re never ready.

           A tear falls down your face, your dog in your arms. You know he would live longer if you just took him home. But you let them insert the needle and squirt a substance into his veins. A part of you is always going to question if you made the right choice. But maybe it is better to let him go now if you are both bound to suffer either way.

           This is May, June, July, August.

           Heartbreak is an odd thing. There is a physical sensation to it where your heart is repetitively stabbed by an invisible dagger, day in and day out, month after month after month. But then one day you open your eyes, and you barely remember that very person holding the knife.

           Then, just like that, it is September again, but when the rain hits your cheek and leaves you to shiver, it is hard to find that smile. The one that came so naturally last year.

           Maybe, somewhere deep inside me, I knew you wouldn’t last forever. Maybe I knew it hurt more to stay. But I wasn’t ready, so I drew out our ending. I’m sorry.

Christopher Nicolás ‘28

           It was the day of the year when I felt happy (apart from Christmas, when we celebrate someone’s birth). It was the day I felt a connection to other people apart from my mom.

           It was Día de los Muertos.

           My life was monotonous and disorganized.

           The sky was orangish and dark, and the sun was about to disappear.

           I started grabbing the tamales and setting them on the ofrenda. I grabbed a lighter and lit the candles.

           My mom set some drinks and a plate of steaming hot black mole on the table. She also put up the last piece of papel picado. She put more cempasúchil on the table.

           The completed ofrenda was beautiful. There was a photo of my abuelo. The table was decorated with a simple but beautiful cloth. The food was hot and looked appetizing on the table. There were tamales, tacos de lengua, atole, a glass bottle of Coca-Cola from Mexico, and other small Mexican treats. The cempasúchil flowers stood on the edges, decorating the edges. The candles were everywhere, and a cross was set in the middle, above my abuelo’s photo.

           Era hermoso.

           My mom turned off the lights.

           The ofrenda didn’t lose any of its beauty. In fact, the darkness only made it even more beautiful. The darkness contrasted with the lit candles and the vibrant colors of the ofrenda and papel picado. The darkness made it better.

           The ofrenda was like a light in the darkness. It never turned off, never lost any hope. It only grows and becomes more powerful. It would not succumb to anything. It looked beautiful.

           My mom looked at the ofrenda.

           I saw a deep sadness in her eyes. I could tell the ofrenda gave her bittersweet memories.

           “¿Cómo era mi abuelo?” I asked my mom.

           Every time this day came, I asked her this question.

           “Era como tu, pero mucho más maduro y menos serio,” she said.

           I looked at her, her brown eyes exposing a rich sadness.

           My mom was from Oaxaca, but she immigrated to the US to find a job and help my grandparents. She ultimately found a job and worked enough for us and our grandparents.

           She then met my godly father, and soon, they were about to have their first and only child.

           But my grandfather was always drinking sugary drinks, and he lived with diabetes for thirty years. The disease was taking over him, and he was lying down on his bed, ready to die.

           My mom wanted to go to Oaxaca and yearned to hug my grandfather for the last time, but she couldn’t. She was pregnant, and my godly father didn’t want to risk it. She couldn’t legally leave the country, and if she did, she would be temporarily locked out of the US.

           I was born as a blessing to my mom.

           But my godly father left my mom, and my abuelo succumbed to diabetes, dying in his sleep.

           My mom was happy about my birth, but she couldn’t stop crying after hearing the news about my grandfather. Every time I was asleep as a baby, she would cry alone. Cry alone for a week after my grandfather’s death.

           But she also felt abandoned because my dad had abandoned her. She was barely nineteen with a child in her hands, alone.

           But she soon recovered, and she was now happy again.

           “I know it’s hard,” I said. “But let’s celebrate his life. Today is Día de los Muertos,” I said.

           “Es cierto,” she said. “Eres lo último que tengo, la última persona que mantendrá con vida a mi abuelo.”

           “Tal vez,” I said. “But he’s also alive in your heart,”

           “Gracias,” my mom said.

           “De nada.” I looked at the ofrenda.

           The ofrenda meant a lot to me, but it meant even more to my mom.

           While my life was horrible—it was a constant mess—my mom lived a worse life. She had no one but me to help her. She was lonely. She had to work to get a decent apartment.

           Meanwhile, I found a new home with other demigods. But my mom was alone. I had something to do. I knew I would one day decide the fate of Olympus.

           “Go to sleep,” my mom said. “I need you to go to school; we’ll eat pan de muerto tomorrow.”

           “Okay,” I said. “Buenas noches.”

           I was in my room, pondering about how my mom felt.

           “Tal vez, I have luck,” I said.

           But my head wasn’t in the right place. I felt like I wasn’t okay.

           I looked at the candle on my desk. I would let it burn until the morning in honor of Día de los Muertos.

           While other kids were out trick-or-treating, I was here, having a good time thinking.

           Usually, I would be enjoying Día de los Muertos, but today, I didn’t feel as happy.

           Maybe it was because I was still adjusting to my new demigod life.

           My head started to hurt.

           A green aura started to appear, and the candle lost its flame.

           “Qué—?” I got up and looked.

           My whole room was masked in a green aura. The place seemed frozen.

           I wasn’t in the mood to be attacked by some god. I was about to turn my watch into sword mode, ready to defend myself from whatever monster was lurking in the shadows.

           “Elias, your mom is like me; I am trying to protect my daughter.”

           “Who are you?” I asked.

           “You’ll know. Tell Zoe that I’m coming for her soon.”

           I looked around.

           “I don’t know what you want with Zoe,” I said. “But if you work for the Time Lord or my friends—then you are playing with fire!”

           “I don’t know if that’s true,” the female voice said. “But I know you will try to stop me, and you should enjoy your useless holiday. Enjoy the moment before the world you know is over.”

           “Don’t dare to call this holiday useless!” I shouted.

           “But this is just the beginning of a new era,” the voice said. “You’ll see me again. Soon.”

           The green light disappeared, and time resumed.

           I instantly ran to the ofrenda, making sure it wasn’t destroyed.

           It stood there as if no one had touched it.

           “¿Qué pasó?” My mom asked.

           I looked at her and told her what happened.

           “Eso no es bueno,” I said.

           “Relax, it might be a coincidence,” my mom said. “Meanwhile, enjoy the moment.”

           My mom was too calm. Maybe she wanted me to relax.

           But I knew this had to do with it. It wanted me to tell me something was coming for Zoe. I don’t know what, but it was not good.

           I might not have much time left. I had accepted my destiny.

           “Bien,” I said, but with a bit of worry.

           I looked at the ofrenda. Its beauty allowed me to relax.

           Maybe my mom was right.

Jules Conklin ’25

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.”