Micky M

Arthur had been a clockmaker for fifty years, and his hands, once steady enough to seat gears the size of grains of rice, now trembled like leaves. Since his wife died, the workshop had grown too quiet. Only the grandfather clocks spoke, counting out the hours to an empty room. Every Tuesday, a girl named Maya pressed her nose to the shop window, her breath fogging the glass beside an old cage and its tiny brass bird. Arthur always waved her in. He would wind the key, and the bird would turn and trill its thin, tinny song while Maya's eyes went wide. It became their little ritual. One rainy Tuesday, she didn't come. Arthur checked the window every few minutes. He told himself he was only watching the weather. By evening, the hollow in his chest had grown too large to ignore, and he closed early. Locking the heavy oak door, he found a damp cardboard box on the mat. Inside was something he couldn't quite make sense of.