The old man took a deep breath, inhaling the aroma of the cup of coffee he held before his face. It brought warmth to his being, but his exhalation came out nonetheless as a sigh, fogging up the icy pane of glass out of which he was looking. This was the kind of sigh that would have surprised his wife, bless her soul, were she around to hear it. She would have raised her eyebrows out of surprise, a precursor to her baking fresh cookies to be delivered with a kiss, but those days were gone now. He turned from the snowy evening street and faced into his shop. Here too was a life companion that had heard very few of those sighs, and this too he was now losing.

He pushed his large round glasses up his short nose, and passed his hand over his wide forehead in his balding snow-white hair that now grew thin at the top, but that still had the bushy energy of his youth on the sides. There is life here yet. He had full lips, and rosy cheeks. His face was set close together and his large glasses and near constant smile gave him what was usually a comically jovial look. Accompanying his white crown was a pointy beard that extended from his chin that fit him so naturally that it was unimaginable to think of him without it. He was short, stocky and somewhat wide.  His belly had begun to enunciate its intent many years ago, and it now hung well over his belt. His black shoes, brown pants, white dress shirt, red sleeveless over-shirt, and white mane meant that he embodied the two ends of the gray-scale. He was white at the top, and black toward the bottom, and aside from his red over-shirt and his Germanic ice blue eyes the only colour defying the spectrum came from a gold chain that flowed graciously from a small clip to a pocket watch tucked where it belonged.

The watch in his pocket ticked away melodiously in cozy tranquility. Its tone almost made it seem content of its place. That might be because that watch was in a place of great honour: snug against the man who had authored its existence. Around him the clockmaker’s gaze embraced the cluttered shop that had seen most of his days. Between the low roof, creaky floorboards, and stonewalls of what was once a house were a panoply his creations. Venerable grandfather clocks stood at the windows facing outwards in august pride, and sung out their seconds in baritone voices. Younger clocks occupied the wall opposite of the main counter, regular pendulum clocks, cuckoo clocks, and others that defied generalization covered the wall so tightly and intricately that those seeking the stone wall underneath would fall under a hypnotic spell when faced with this mosaic of numbers, hands, dials, and the wide range of tocks, clicks, clacks and knocks that made up the chorus of their individual and unique voices. The children of the group did not fail to make their higher pitched babbles heard in the discussion either, and the various display tables were cluttered with pocket watches as inconveniently small as the tip of a man’s thumb, as ludicrously big as a man’s whole hand, and everything in between. There were bronze, silver, and gold ones, some with etched designs others without, and all types of wristwatches strapped to leather here, and to intricate bracelets there. With each of these too came a unique voice, a singular way to tick or click.

The counter had an old bulky cash register and a green desk light that lit up a pile of papers. The small space between it and the pigeonholes behind it marked the only oasis free of timekeeping clutter in the whole building. The counter faced the clock-covered wall. A fireplace was the only variation in the clock wall, and its current orange glow offered the only alternative for light from the desk lamp. The door and windows were to the left of the wall, and to the right was the even more chaotic back where glass, metal, gears, tools, and all sorts of objects fought for room on the limited space of some tables. A record player once stood proudly in the corner, but it had succumbed to prying tools under dictate of the curiosity of the man and his constant need for new parts. The invasive manner of the materials soon conquered the player’s space, and its existence had been struck from the memory of the store. Nowadays the only music came from the mingling of the different voices of the clocks. Each chimed its piece in various tones and frequencies, but at the same intervals creating symphonies as soothingly beautiful to the man’s ears as any Beethoven or Mozart for he was the conductor of this orchestra. It was a sound he was well familiar with, and one that brought peace to his old soul.

He warmed his hands on his cup. This old house had seen his hair lengthen, shorten, lengthen again, whiten, and start to disappear, his belly slowly gain ground over his belt, and his glasses grow bigger as his eyes had weakened. The space had cluttered, clocks had been made, displayed, and sold. During this forty year dance the clockmaker had been the only performer who had moved. The walls and the clocks on them had ticked away marking the tempo, but remained unwavering while the then young man progressed through the acts, ever whitening. The clocks knew better than to mock his impermanence however, for the old man had brought them into existence. He had fathered all of them, even the grandfather clocks, making his impressive four-generation patriarchy respected indeed amongst his children. Their constant babbling might make another go mad, suddenly faced to the combined insistence of a hundred voices hammering home the truth of the continual flow of time, but to the clockmaker they were as his children telling him stories.

7:42pm, Father, they now said in unison.

The clockmaker glanced over to the papers on his desk, they had piled up until they could be ignored no longer. Bills, warnings, and notices from the bank telling him his work was not valuable enough. Numbers, aside from 24 and 60 anyways, were not his specialty. The incessant letters and repeat visits by young impolite men in suits had finally forced him to accept that tonight when he locked up at 8pm he would not open up the doors of his shop again. He let out another sigh, and walked over to turn over the logs in the small chimney.

At 7:45pm the clocks set the tempo for the daily number of the closing dance. The old man walked to the back, manoeuvring easily around and over piles of mechanical parts to grab a broom, and begun to sweep the floors. He gathered the papers of his demise into a neat pile, wiped the counters, opened the old cash register to empty it out of habit, but it was already empty. None had entered the store today. He continued his rehearsed steps of the closing dance, though this time the curtain would drop never to see another representation. The clocks observed sympathetically:

7:53pm, Father, they cooed gently.

He rummaged through a drawer and found the key. He proceeded towards the door, but waited for the cue from the orchestra. He leaned back on a table. He sipped his coffee, and watched the street. It had begun to snow first gently, but it worsened rapidly until big flakes were blowing in various directions under the strong wind. He looked ahead in a pensive dream, and when the ticks indicated 7:59pm he went toward the door to flip the open sign, and to lock the door for the last time.

However, as he prepared to put the key in the slot a man clad in black hunched with rimmed hat and red scarf against the snowy blizzard passed quickly in front of the store windows, and pushed on the door. The bell above the frame rang as the stranger entered the store in front of the old man, allowing a strong gust of wind carrying some snowflakes to enter. He closed the door behind him, and the bell rang out in its clear chime again.

“Well met, friend.” Said the old man with a gentle smile “Its really coming down out there isn’t it?”

The man made muffled sound, to which the clockmaker simply smiled. The stranger pulled down his scarf; revealing a man of near thirty with brown eyes and short hair of the same colour, pale skin, thin lips, high cheekbones, and a strong shaved jaw.

“Yes it really is.” He repeated “Miserable.”

“Come in, come in. Would you like some coffee?” replied the clockmaker

“Yes, that would be great.”

The old man threw new logs into the fire and indicated a small table with two chairs nearby where the new comer could sit. As the old man went to the back of the store to an old stove the clocks declared 8pm, erupting into loud symphonic chimes, coos, strikes, bells, congs, clongs, clicks and ticks calling out eight times in unison. The traveller set down his briefcase, peeled off his many layers, and brushed the snow off them before finally sitting down one black panted leg resting on the other under a gray sweatshirt. He had a few moments to himself to look around. The fresh wood quickly caught and spread new bright light in the room, and he unavoidably noticed the imposing wall of clocks that looked like a hundred eyed creature with the fireplace for a mouth. Before he fell too deep under the creature’s spell his host came back with two cups steaming with inviting aroma. They were put down on the table. Then traveller stuck out his hand:

“Thank you. I am Henrik”

“Gustav” replied the clockmaker shaking the firm hand of his invitee.

They were quiet a moment as Gustav sat down breathing heavily a moment while Henrik scrutinized this interesting place. They sipped on their coffees. Comfortable, Gustav spoke first:

“Where are you coming from?”

“I just left work.”

“I was about to leave myself,” Gustav replied with a sad smile. “You can see what I do, what is it you do?”

“I am in entrepreneurial finance.” said Henrik

“Ah…finance…” repeated the old clockmaker less enthusiastically before turning back to his coffee.

An awkward silence, relative in a room punctuated by the incessant babbling of clocks, began to set in now. Henrik sensed it. He knew its cause, and did not let it instil.

“In fact,” he cleared his throat “it is not simply desire for shelter that brings me here tonight.”

His host raised his bushy eyebrows as he drank, but did not say anything.

“I came here because I know of your financial troubles, and I want to make a proposal.” The young man continued.

“A proposal?”

“I want to buy out your business.”

“Is that so?” replied Gustav calmly, sipping again at his coffee, and licking his lips.

Mildly surprised by the lack of response to his offer, Henrik said:

“Yes, the town of Haugesund is growing, and your store is well located. It is the right time to invest. I was thinking….”

“The right time.” The old man interrupted. “Time is a curious thing isn’t it? We can try to prepare for things, try to anticipate, try to prevent them, or speed them up, but they happen as they will, and there is nothing we can do but go along. I have worked with Time and measured it most of my life and will continue to experience it, as we all do, for what’s left of my days, yet I cannot claim to know its secrets as well as they do.” the clockmaker replied gesturing towards his clocks. It was Henrik’s turn to raise his eyebrows, but before he could say anything Gustav added:

“No, I will not sell.”

“I am surprised to hear you say that; you have not even heard my offer!”

“The number does not matter, I have built this store with my own hands, and have seen many days in it. Now my time grows short, and this store’s time has given before mine. I will not try to blow artificial life into it from the breath of another.”

“You have not even heard what I intend to do with it either! I will not build a condo here, nor start a fast food chain. I will modernize, that is all. I want to continue to sell clocks here; the store has its reputation that I want to keep. But I will bring in other items as well, digital clocks, various wears to outfit a house in the Norway of the 21^st Century.” Said Henrik

“Your intent does not matter, I will not change my mind. The answer is no.”

Frustrated at meeting this wall of resistance when he expected to cross the ribbon at a run being welcomed as a saviour Henrik cried out: “I intend to do what you should have done: modernize your stock! If you are hard headed like this about everything then I can understand why you are in such a poor financial situation!”

He regretted the outburst immediately. The clocks buzzed furiously, suddenly becoming imposing and ticking loudly in the ensuing silence. Gustav remained passive.

“I am sorry, I did not mean to say those things. I have come some way to be here and am tired.”

“I have always been interested in the motions of mechanics.” Gustav said simply.

“Ever since I was a lad I was fascinated by the intricacy and precision of mechanisms, and when I dedicated myself to the study of the art as a teenager I began to see the wisdom that lay within it. Mechanical clocks, you see, continue to keep time independent of human tending or electricity. They are much like this invisible foe that ravages the mind and body.,” the clockmaker said touching his balding head.

“This foe, that we call Time, continues its relentless march and requires that we keep up pace until we can no longer at which point we fall by the wayside for it slows nor stops for anyone. Much like that the mechanism of my clocks cannot be stopped before its time without of destroying the casing or body. I was never interested in clocks that easily broke or lost time whenever the snows knocked out electricity. When I sit down to build a clock, to bring into existence a physical manifestation of Time, I dedicate myself to it. It is my passion. I do the best I can and, as a painter tries to replicate the personality of his model, so do I try to transcribe the essence of my subject. This means the clock has to keep on ticking relentlessly, expressing itself independently of the age old desire of men to control Time and modify it to their will. This is why my clocks are set to local time, and then remain unstoppable and unchangeable. This is what interests me, not money. I also accept that, like us, when something runs out of Time it runs out of Time, and that is that. The clocks on these walls may still be lively, but the clock of this shop is about to run out, and that will be.”

“That may make me hard headed, but none is more hard headed than Time itself, and I don’t think my frail old skull could handle a head to head collision with this formidable foe.” He added with a smile.

“What you say is true,” Henrik replied “but when a watch runs out, you go to buy another. Surely some of your customers have come for replacements. This is what I want to do, I am buying a new watch for this establishment.”

“This is what I have thought they would do, but the current state of my business indicates otherwise! Perhaps I build my clocks to last too long.” He joked.

“That is not because people have stopped buying watches, they have stopped buying your watches. Your idea is poetic, yet not practical in the modern world. The clock need not stop here, it just needs a refurbishment.”

“Ah, but to revive the hourglass one must turn it upside down, completely changing the direction that the grains have been flowing, and reversing all that has been done so far. I do not think the brittle glass of my weathered body could handle such a sudden shift in sand weight. No, I choose to stick to the belief, even in the face of the final grains dropping as now, that some people somewhere will still want clocks that do not take calls, play music, and bend which ever way, but that simply tell time reliably and unwaveringly. ”

“You need not handle the shifted weight! I would take over. I am offering you a way out, if you would at least consider my offer you could retire comfortably instead of declaring bankruptcy!”

“Henrik,” the oldman said gently, almost paternally “why do you insist like this? You have my answer, and it will not change. You are young, and from what I can see ambitious and intelligent. Why not try to build your own castle rather than try to restore the crumbling foundations of another man’s work?”

Now it was Henrik who let out a sigh in the increasing darkness. Dusk had given way to night. Snow whizzed by the streetlights outside, appearing suddenly from the darkness to twist in turbulence shinning brightly in the spotlight for a moment before disappearing again in the night leaving the stage for new flakes to dance in brief madness. The log in the fire popped and cracked, its orange glow played on the faces of the two men and reflected on suitably placed clock faces, the rest of the store was in relative darkness combatted only by the counter lamp. The clocks ticked away as always, their sound seemingly coming in and out as waves through the conversation even though they always sung. In this moment again they added the weight of their word, their previous furor had subsided.

8:37pm, friends, they said among other things.

From behind his glasses, the clockmaker observed his guest with the sparkling blue eyes that attested to his still agile mind and warm soul, and waited for him to speak.

“Do you remember,” the young man said, encouraged by that gaze “almost forty years ago you sold a bronze pocket watch to a man who had curly brown hair and big glasses? He was a jittery and forgetful fellow, always running around late for appointments, and never keeping still. That was why he came here. ”

“Though it is not apparent now I have sold many watches. I do not remember each face unfortunately, but please continue.”

“Of course. Anyways, that man ran around town a lot, and then he ran around the world a lot. He got a job on a ship that brought cargo from New York to Hong Kong, from London to Calcutta. Always he had on him the watch he purchased from you that, even if he had wanted to, he could not have timed to the various times of the worlds he experienced. Instead it ticked faithfully for five years, through seawater, rain, snow, and sand to the time of his sleepy Norwegian hometown. It was solid anchor in the tumultuous seas of the world and of his ideas. Every time he looked at it, a small picture reminded him of its purpose. It was the picture of a girl he loved to whom he had promised to come back to with enough money to marry, and provide for properly.” Gustav smiled broadly at these words.

“She had accepted the promise on the encouragement of her heart, in spite of opposition from her family, and of her own judgment. That boy could not even keep an appointment made the previous day; how could he keep one made several years before? Yet as promised on the fifth anniversary of his departure the man showed up at her door at precisely noon. He asked her to marry him, and they did so a few days later. That man was…”

“Your father…” the clockmaker guessed.

“Correct. And that woman was my mother. I was born a few years later, and through my life they regaled me with that story many times, praising the quality of the watch, which you had sold for a good price to my poor young father. He never missed a chance to laud it, and you, but my parents never came to see you. They did not think you would remember him, nor truly care.”

“Preposterous! I would love to meet them!”

“And I would love to introduce them… Unfortunately they both passed a few year ago.”

Gustav cringed at the news. “My sympathies”

“Thank you. Anyways it had been nagging in the back of my mind that I must come visit this store. After all, that clock kept my father’s frantic steps on beat until they transitioned to the wedding dance. In a way, you are responsible for the union of my parents, and consequently my birth.” Henrik said smiling timidly.

“A few weeks ago an indescribable feeling in my gut told me now was the time. I decided to look into your store, and discovered that your business was going under. My slow hesitance in career choice meant I could not make my parents proud while they lived, but now I am looking to make my mark in this world, and I thought this was the perfect solution. The idea seeded in my head, and rooted deeply. This way I could help you, and take over the work that had made my parents so happy. But now it seems as if I cannot do even this properly.” the young man said bitterly. Gustav looked at him tenderly.

“Do not be so hard on yourself, Henrik. You may not float my business with your money, but your story and presence has warmed my heart on this cold night. Had you not come I would not even have had single visitor on this, the last day of my business.”

“And,” he added trying to cheer up the young man “speaking of Time had you arrived a few minutes later you would have found a locked and empty store!”

“I know” the son replied, and he pulled out a marked, busted, and dull bronze watch from his pocket.

The clockmaker reached over and took it observing it, turning it over in his hands, and running his thumbs over it, feeling its architecture.

“Ah yes, now I remember” he whispered.

He opened it, under the picture of the smiling faces of newly weds was the scratched and cracked glass covering the needles that kept ticking as they had for forty years.

For a few seconds the silence was filled up with the ticking of its hand movements. Then the Time struck 9pm, and again the clocks struck, chimed clicked, rung, cooed, gonged, clack, tick, tacked, and tocked in a joyously cacophonic song. It was like the cry of surprise party guests welcoming the jubilee home. The bronze pocket watch ticked boastfully, telling its younger siblings of the wonders of the world it had seen. For the duration of those nine strikes Human conversation was impossible, yet much was said. The old man sat cradling the watch in his hands with an expression of pure contentment on his face surrounded by his children and knowing that his now visiting child had served a noble purpose. This scene would have made a spectacular portrait were Henrik a painter. However, the moment of joy, like all things of beauty, was fleeting, and as the final chime rung out the clockmaker gave the invigorated watch back to Henrik.

“I’m glad it was put to good use.”

“Let me continue to put it to good use, and make my timely arrival worthwhile with a positive answer.” Henrik half pleaded.

“My answer is positive, Henrik. This is my calling; you must find yours. I am sure your parents will be proud no matter what you choose to do.” Henrik slumped in his chair to these words.

“You will not change your mind?”

“No, my friend. I am sorry.” Gustav said smiling his gentle smile. “But I suspect this choice will work out best for you.”

“Maybe you are right, but for the first time in my life when I thought of this plan I had a clear sense of purpose and direction. Here was something tangible to work towards. Now, again, my path winds on itself, and I am directionless.”

The tragic weight of these words had some muffling effect on the room. The spectators ticked quietly in sympathy for this man who had reunited them with their sibling. Perhaps he did not need pressing reminder of Time right now. Gustav leaned back on his chair and looked pensively out the window. Henrik holding his head in his hand did not notice. The lack of drive of Henrik and the deception and bitterness he visibly felt faced with this soft resistance further convinced the clockmaker that the plans of his young friend were built on fickle foundations of sand. He carried this thought as he gazed passed Henrik into the storm to the flakes dancing in the windy night.

“I always thought,” he begun “that for us in the Great North it makes more sense to think not of the sands of Time, but of the snows of Time. Sand is just not what we have. The sand on our beaches comes in gritty muddy clumps not in the fine silk your father must have seen in the deserts of the world, and deserts are as much a part of our lives as ice cream is for Berbers.

Hourglasses have now long since flabbergasted the youth. The sands replaced the rocks, and were replaced by clocks, but now again it seems the shadows have moved, the sand has fallen, and the hands have cycled. Things are changing and it seems that mechanical clocks are not fashionable anymore. I fear that as we move further into technology we will be further removed from the metaphors of Timekeeping. But, perhaps that is my old age preventing me from seeing the wisdom of digital. I am sure the sundial makers of old thought in the same melancholic way of hourglasses. Snow however, remains present in our every day lives. Falling flakes in particular present good lessons. See” he said pointing out the window, and drawing Henrik from his somberness.

“how those flakes twist and turn in the light. It looks like chaos doesn’t it? However, true beauty lays in that dance. Every individual flake, to get to that tiny glowing area of that street lamp, fell from different points in the vastness of the sky, and then followed its own path downwards twisting and turning as it went along. All flakes fall downwards, but at their own speed and manner. It is truly bewildering to think of all the possible paths a flake can take. Some may have fallen straight down to the light; others may have blown sideways for miles to get there. In the spotlight of this lamp hundreds of flakes every second seem to appear from and disappear to nowhere. Each has come from a different place, and is going to a different place each in turn embracing then abandoning the lamp’s glow. They are brought together in this glow to twirl in mad yet synchronized dance with unknown purpose or cause. Some go faster some go slower, some are caught in drafts causing spirals that intertwine with others in evolving currents for the fraction of a second before being distanced again forever. The lamp, as the eye of man, cannot come near to comprehending the complexity of this small portion of the spectacular storm of Time it illuminates. We can never know the story, path, or destination of those flakes, or of those we meet; we can only perceive or imagine fragments of certain patterns as they rush past us in the briefest of moments. But the moments do have purpose. The flakes swirl together in choreographed dance from genesis in the cloud to the final resting place, being influenced by each encounter before finding the perfect niche amongst its peers to form the uniform white blanket of snows past that covers the land after the storm, ready to be covered in turn by the new flakes of succeeding storms and generations.”

“Especially in fierce storms like this, the constant change of tempo of the spotlight dance can seem ludicrously random, but ah… at the end of the night all across the land lays a pristine, perfectly uniform layer of white. Every flake, through its chaotic course, fell exactly in its destined place.”

“You may feel directionless, Henrik, but flakes are often caught in updrafts, seemingly without direction, but they always fall in their rightful place. As for me, well already my physiognomy is telling me that I will soon be part of the white drape of yesterdays snow. The chances that your flake will land right on top of mine are very slim, but by the will of the Wind our paths intertwined once before you were born, and they do so now again, which in itself is an extremely rare occurrence. We can never know what effect we will have on each other, but we will both fall where we need to, though me before you. I see a good life still with twist and turns, and dances with other flakes to come for you.”

“It is also fitting then that not only is the course of each snowflake unique, but also its composition. No one is identical to another. Everyone falls in their place, and every place is made for that one. This wondrous spectacle is a heavenly gift for our land and for the living, a redemption for the cold perhaps.” Gustav said half jokingly before letting his words sink in the ensuing silence.

Tick, tock, tick, tock, tick, tock…. The dials echoed

“I wonder if one could make a clock or time telling device that incorporated snow. Now that would be interesting…” The old clockmaker added, and his eyes lit up bright with the excitement of this new idea.

Henrik understood something then. The thought was not fully formed, but as a tumble of snow gathers momentum to become a growing ball the process of the idea begun here. He learned that he did not have the same passion as Gustav for clocks. He also began to understand that his destination maybe yet unknown, but one was never too old to dream. He saw it in the clockmaker’s eyes.

The snow was beginning to pile up and block the windows. The room was now basked in a mix of the dim blue light of the snow mixed with the orange of the fire. Henrik still felt somewhat defeated, but he was better now for the snowball had already begun to tumble and grow. Like the soothing chatter of a crowd that grows loud and dim as people find and lose topics to discuss so too did the clocks now begin to tick loudly.

9:33pm Brothers, they nudged.

Gustav was drawn from his reverie by the calls of his children. He glanced at the wall and nodded.

“It grows late, Henrik, and the snow is piling up fast. We should both head home for some rest. Tomorrow holds new beginnings for the both of us.” He rose and so did Henrik, but the young man said

“You need not land yet. My father when passing left me a small sum, which I intended to put toward buying this place. It is clear that will not be its purpose, but I still want it to help you.” He pulled a checkbook from his coat, and swiftly made out a check to the old man.

“It is not much, but it should help you stay open a few more months. I would give you more if I had it, but ask that you accept it.” The old man tried to refuse, but Henrik insisted.

“It is what my father would have wanted, and more importantly it is what I want. Accept it as a token of my gratitude, a payment for your time, your hospitality, or your wisdom, whatever you wish. I would purchase one of your clocks, but I have mine, and it is the only one I need,” the young man said flashing his father’s bronze watch, and his share of wisdom.

At this last line the old man ceded. He understood and accepted this as very few salesmen would have. He would ride the updraft with this young flake for a while. He thanked the young man with warm sincerity, and accepted to promise under the young man’s insistence to clear up the front of the store, and at least make an effort to be more marketable to stay afloat.

Then, under the gentle babble of the clocks, they shook hands, and Gustav put his hand warmly on Henrik’s shoulder and wished him good luck. On his way out Henrik impulsively threw a look to the clock wall as if to say goodbye, but quickly looked back and shook his head to himself as he walked out into the winter wonderland. He did not slouch into himself while walking this time; the storm did not seem so miserable to him now. The clockmaker had noticed his gaze and laughed heartily dissipating all the lingering sighs that had been voiced in this room. He patted a nearby grandfather clock, and winked to his wall dials. He turned off the lamp, plunging the bills into the dark and exited out the back door.

***

The hands completed many cycles since that night, and on this morning they gently hummed 10:37am. It was a beautiful day, the sky was blue and the Nordic Sun beamed through the windows into the now uncluttered main area of the store. Gustav had kept his promise, and given the place a facelift. Now he was sitting at a desk in the back, humming along to the tune of the ticks. With tweezers and a magnifying glass he was putting the final touches on a pocket watch he had started shortly after that fateful night. He looked it over. All the gears and mechanisms were in place, the hands were firmly fixed over the dial at the 10:45 position, and the glass was impeccable. He waited for the announcement of 10:45 then started the watch. Its little heart sprung to life to beat in perfect rhythm with its elder brothers and sisters. It immediately articulated its unique nimble voice, enunciating each of its crystal clear tchicks in soft timidity, but with underlying elegance and joy. Happy with this greeting, the clockmaker then put in place the silver back plate into which he had etched little snowflakes winding in a beautiful pattern.

Satisfied with his morning’s work he got up, and began to sweep the floors again to the tempo of the grandfather clock’s deep pendulums. On the desk nearby was a letter from Henrik, he was in Oslo pursuing some technological idea he had had with a friend that Gustav did not understand, but the writing was excited and it made the clockmaker smile warmly.

As he whistled along the bell of the door rang announcing a visitor. He turned around seeing no one, and looked down. Before him was a lovely young girl of no more than thirteen. She had bright blond hair, snow-white skin, pink lips, and eyes of a deeper blue than his. A true daughter of the North, she looked as delicate as a flower. Gustav smiled at her as she looked around.

She mumbled timidly “My mother sent me to buy a watch because I’m always late for my classes. Do you sell watches here?”

“Why yes I do!” replied Gustav heartily. “In fact I make them.”

“Really?” asked the girl.

“Yes, I made all of these.”

The girl looked around in awe, her small size dwarfed by the imposing wall of a life’s accomplishment. The clocks were kind however; they had not seen such a young face in quite some time. Gustav observed her timid curiosity with grandfatherly eyes. Suddenly he had an idea, and slipped into the back. He came back, and extended his hand to the little girl.

“Here is one I finished this morning, something tells me you will like it.” In his hand was the silver snowflake pocket watch. The eyes of the little girl lit up as she picked it up.

“You made this? Its so pretty!” she got excited as she looked at it. She came out of her timidity, and so did too did the watch babble its tchicks with insistence, but she soon retreated from this burst back to a moderated quiet shyness.

“I was supposed to get a watch that beeps to remind, and besides I probably don’t have enough money…” She said with a pout.

“This may not beep, but it will never lose time.”

She looked at it with envy, and pulled out her pink flowered wallet to innocently count how much money she had aloud, in front of the salesman. There was not much. Certainly not enough for a quality watch, she suspected as such but did not fully know the inflated numbers grownups attached to things. The old man felt great friendliness for this little snowflake that was so pure as to see through and through.

“I will tell you what, I will sell it for what you have, if you want it.”

The little girl squealed excitedly, and Gustav laughed heartily even though he was losing quite a bit of money in the transaction. The chorus of clocks buzzed. The pair went over to the counter and exchanged, the girl was now clearly excited and had undergone quite the transformation from the timid little one that had come in just a handful of tick tocks ago. The store’s dials spoke soothingly to their little sister who was already leaving them, and wished the two of them well.

“Thank you! Have a good day mister!” exclaimed the little girl happily.

“Have a good day, little snowflake” the old man replied with a wink.

She gave him a smile and an elegant curtsey that made up more than enough for the money difference, and skipped along happily in the street as though blown away by the Wind while the ringing bell died out. The clocks erupted into cheer eleven times as a tick brought the collective long hands to point straight up to the immediate right of the small hand. Their chimes, whistles, rings, bells, gongs, songs, ticks, tacks, clicks, and clacks merrily filled the store and the old man hummed along with them. He gave the clock wall the bow of reverence like a performer to an audience, and he walked to the back. In the buoyancy of his mood he triumphantly knocked the pile of bills and notices off the desk. They fluttered and flapped whichever way over and around each other onto the freshly swept floor. They landed in a spread; mostly face down, masking the red ink to make a small white carpet having landed where they must. Whistling joyfully, the clockmaker sat down at his desk to continue his dreamy preliminary sketches of a snow clock as the pendulum settled back into a calm discourse with Time, guest who never left anywhere, but that who was never ignored here. And sometimes, as now, when this visitor’s needs were met it could be blissfully forgotten, if only for a moment to sit in pause, and dream.