The bell above the door chimed, a silver sound that cut through the dusty air. Clara looked up, her heart hammering harder than any escapement. Standing in the doorway was Mrs. Gable, clutching a heavy mahogany mantle clock as if it were a wounded pet.
"I heard the ticking from the street," the old woman whispered, her eyes red-rimmed. "I thought... I thought the music had left this place for good."
Clara took the clock. It was cold and silent. As she opened the back casing, she felt a wave of vertigo—the complexity of the movement was daunting. For a moment, she felt like an impostor, a city girl playing dress-up in her father's apron. But then, she saw a small mark etched into the wood inside: a tiny "E" and a tiny "C" entwined.
Her father hadn't just fixed this clock; he had maintained it for decades, leaving a trail of breadcrumbs for her to follow. She didn't need to be a master yet; she just needed to listen.