Nobody could tell you when the Clockmaker first set up shop. He's always been there, as far as I can remember, the townsfolk would say. Asking more specifically would earn you some odd looks and suspicious stares. Visitors quickly learned to avoid questioning further, lest they found themselves ejected and lost in the town’s surrounding wilds. 

The town in which he resided had no name. The houses rippled with a certain strange shimmer; they vanished from the corners of eyes in the twilight, then rebuilding and reshaping themselves in the moments between thoughts. They've always looked like that, the townsfolk would say. Are you feeling alright? One could swear that the entire town was ticking along to some unknown beat, and sometimes, visitors would hear the ticking in their dreams. The longer one spent there, the more clocks and watches they would begin to see. Despite the town's… eccentricities, it was known to be welcoming. Children would wave as you walked down the main street. A smile directed towards a local rarely went unanswered. 

The Clockmaker was always in his shop: from the rising of the sun to the rising of the twin moons; in the snow and the rain and the prickly heat of summer; in celebration and in sadness. He was always busy; there were always new clocks to make. Peering through a grimy window, one could see him leaning over some project, fiddling with gears and screws and a variety of items with no name. There were always more clocks to fix, after all.

Even the Clockmaker could not fix everything, however. Sometimes, the damaged watches or timepieces or grandfather clocks were too damaged, and the clockmaker would smile sadly then shake his head. Those were always days of mourning. In the evening following a failed repair, he would attend a funeral of a recently departed member of the town, placing the remains of a broken clock on top of their coffin before it was lowered into the earth. That was the only time he was ever seen outside his shop. He would shake the hands of the bereaved families, offering his condolences. Afterwards, he would return. There were always more clocks to make, after all.

Yet this delicate existence could not last forever. A group of bandits, packed into a single, small ship, marked the watershed. They had heard the rumours about the strange town and the strange inhabitants; they wanted to see it for themselves. Like many who pursue ends without regard to means they were greedy in their need.

They, unblinking, would have offered no kindness to the locals. Not that they were given the chance to. Their ship was greeted by ethereal silence; a mist descended upon the town as the bandits stalked their way up the main street and towards the Clockmaker's shop. They wanted his knowledge, his strange power over time and the threads of lives, and his expertise. 

The Clockmaker was waiting for them. He was not sitting at his desk; he was stood in front of his shop. He smiled as they approached. 

"I knew you were coming,” he said. “You seem rather interested in my shop." He held a watch in his hand. It was beautiful and ornate: all gold and copper and carefully polished glass over the delicate hands of the clock face.

There was no response at first. Then, the leader of the bandits stepped forward, exuding a threatening aura. "We know of your strange powers, Clockmaker,” they said. “We would like to see them for ourselves." 

This tale has been unlawfully lifted from Royal Road. If you spot it on Amazon, please report it.

"Hmm." The Clockmaker tilted his head slightly to one side. "I merely fix things, gentlemen. To search so violently for what you seek means you may never find it at all."

"Nonsense," The leader bristled.

"My value lies in the community I serve. Speak to them if you wish to understand." 

The leader pulled a small gun from nowhere then pointed it at the man's head. "Tell us the source of your power. Now!" A finger hovered over the trigger.

"Terribly sorry,” was the Clockmaker’s response, his eyes sparkling with adventure. "I must be on my way. Goodbye for now, gentlemen." 

The gun fired, the crack of the bullet reverberating off of the surrounding houses, startling those peering through cracks in closed curtains. The Clockmaker fell backwards and landed on the ground with a soft thud, blood pooling around the shattered remains of his skull. The watch in his hand fell to the ground. The second hand had stopped ticking. 

"Search the shop," The leader ordered. With this, the bandits barged over the Clockmaker’s body and through the doorway. The sound of dozens of clocks and watches, all ticking in perfect harmony, greeted them. They searched every little corner and crack, but found nothing, aside from seemingly endless gears and screws and all manner of strange, small objects.

In the town, a neighbour who saw the Clockmaker fall ran to her neighbour, who ran to two more, and so on, until the entire town knew what had occurred. Within minutes, they had rallied into a single, extremely angry group; they advanced towards the Clockmaker's shop. Each one held aloft a small, ornate watch as they marched in perfect step.

The bandits had pistols, but the townsfolk were not afraid. They had access to powers far more ancient; ones which were forged in the crucible of the universe and rediscovered by one intrepid human, many moons ago. Bullets emerged from the bandits' barrels and seemed to slow in mid-air. They stopped then fell to the ground, aged beyond any use. The children threw stones, which reverted into their primordial form as they sailed through the air, taking on the heat of lava and then exploding, burning and battering the now-terrified bandits. 

They were driven from the shop. They were forced back down the main road: the only route away from the onslaught. As they ran, the roar of a deeply wronged community rang throughout the town and the mountains and the valleys beyond, and nearby animals all paused for a brief moment, shocked into stillness at the power of what they had heard. The bandits themselves aged rapidly as they ran for their ship, the hair on their heads turning white and wrinkles appearing on their faces, arms and hands. 

After that, no more bandits visited the town. None would dare.

~~~

The town exists to this day. It can't be found on a map anymore; these days, only the most lost of travellers find their way there, always greeted by smiles and offers of tea and cake. In return, travellers offer the townsfolk stories of their lives and their journeys, and leave feeling strangely younger for this trade. All who have stumbled across the town report a monument of bronze and steel, towering above the town, in the ruins of a building at the end of the main street. A small hollow in its base holds a small, beautiful, gold-and-copper watch. A local legend tells that all who lay broken objects at the monument's feet, in the light of the full twinned moons, find them repaired by the morning.

And those lost enough in the darkest of nights - too lost to even find the town - swear they felt the presence of a gentle, smiling man by their side, guiding them to a place they can call home for a while. "Who are you?" They wonder aloud. Sometimes they hear a response, the clocks on their vehicles going haywire.

Just lending you a hand, a voice would reply. Keeping myself busy while I look for a new home.

There are always more clocks to fix, after all.