The workshop smelled of lemon polish and machine oil—Ella's favorite combination. She'd spent the morning arranging her father's old tools on the wall: a brass caliper, a set of tiny screwdrivers, a hammer with a chipped handle that had "Ella, age 9" carved into the wood. Beside them, Sebastian had hung a small, elegant clock he'd inherited from his grandfather—a contrast of old and new, just like them.
"Almost done," she murmured, adjusting the position of a glass display case. Inside, the pocket watch she'd been fixing sat beside a vintage mantel clock, its face painted with bluebirds. "These will be our 'showpieces.'"
Sebastian appeared with two mugs of tea, steam curling between them. "Ethan just dropped off the flyers. He insists 'Grand Reopening: Clocks, Coffee, and Chaos' will draw a crowd."
Ella snorted, taking the mug. "Chaos is his middle name." She nodded at the box in the corner—the one with Isabella's journals. It had been staring at her all week, quiet but heavy. "I think I'm ready."
He set his mug down, his gaze steady. "Whenever you are."
She knelt, prying open the lid. The journals were leather-bound, their pages yellowed but neat. The first entry was dated seven years ago: "Sebastian gave me a pearl necklace. It's beautiful, but I keep thinking about the陶艺 studio downtown. Maybe I'll ask for lessons for my birthday."
Ella blinked, surprised. She'd imagined Isabella as someone who only cared about sapphires and galas—not陶艺 studios.
She flipped to another page: "Mother says 'ladies don't get their hands dirty.' But there's a satisfaction in shaping clay, isn't there? It doesn't care if you're a 'Black fiancée' or just… a girl who likes making things."
A lump formed in Ella's throat. She glanced at Sebastian, who'd sat beside her, reading over her shoulder. "She wanted to make things too," he said softly.
"I didn't… I never thought—" Ella stopped, shaking her head. "I always saw her as this perfect ghost. Not… someone who felt stuck, too."
He took the journal from her, closing it gently. "None of us are just the roles people give us. Not her. Not me. Not you." He brushed a thumb over her cheek. "That's why I love you. You never let anyone write your story."
The bell above the workshop door jangled, making them jump. A woman in a tailored coat stood in the doorway, eyes wide. "Sorry—I saw the sign and… is this really White & Son? My grandmother used to bring her mantel clock here. In the 70s."
Ella stood, smiling. "It is. We're reopening next week, but come in—look around."
The woman wandered over to the display case, gasping when she saw the bluebird clock. "That's it! That's the one she had. It stopped after she died. I've kept it in a box for years, too afraid to fix it." She turned to Ella, hope in her voice. "Can you…?"
"Absolutely," Ella said, without hesitation. "Bring it by. We'll get it singing again."
The woman left, promising to return, and Ella turned to Sebastian, grinning. "First customer. Sort of."
He wrapped her in a hug. "Told you they'd come."
Later, as the sun set, Ella placed the journal back in its box—but not before tucking a note inside: "Your clay and my gears—we're both just people who like making things. Rest easy."
She closed the lid, feeling lighter. The ghost hadn't vanished, but she no longer felt like a shadow.
Sebastian slid an arm around her waist, nodding at the clock on the wall. Its hands inched toward seven, and with a soft chime, it sang—clear, steady, alive.
"Practice run," he said.
Ella smiled, leaning into him. "Perfect timing."
Outside, the streetlamp flickered on, and somewhere in the distance, a car horn beeped. But in the workshop, there was only the hum of possibility—and the quiet, certain tick of a clock that knew exactly where it belonged.