The Clockmaker’s Long Way Home

Tomas left the clock tower through the narrow door behind the market stalls. The clock above him would be four seconds slow by spring, which was close enough for a town where nothing departed at an exact minute.

His usual road home crossed the square. Tonight he took the lane behind the tailor’s shop, where the houses leaned slightly toward one another and the lamps were spaced farther apart.

He passed a courtyard with washing left beneath an awning, a fountain turned off for winter, and a bakery window clouded from within. The long road offered no surprises, which was why he liked it.

At the top of the lane he heard the clock strike ten. From here the sound seemed softer, almost borrowed from another village.

Tomas reached his blue door and did not look back to count the chimes. He had set the clock. It could keep the rest of the night without him.