The Timekeeper

The village of Cosmeston runs on time—thanks to Mr. Fawley’s clocks. But when a boy’s mistake shatters more than just a priceless antique, the clockmaker’s perfect world stops ticking.

Old Mr. Fawley’s clock shop sat at the edge of the quiet Welsh village of Cosmeston, perched on a slight hill that offered a perfect view of the cobbled square below. It was an ancient village, wrapped in mist most mornings and shadowed by rolling hills that stretched out toward the sea. Cosmeston’s small stone cottages, with their rough-hewn walls and slate roofs, huddled close together, as if to protect themselves from the brisk wind that swept in from the nearby coast.

To the west, fields stretched toward Lavernock Point, where cliffs met the grey-blue waters of the Bristol Channel. On certain days, when the sea fog rolled in thick and heavy, the coastline would vanish entirely, leaving only the faint sound of waves crashing against unseen rocks.

In the centre of the village square stood a modest fountain, worn and moss-covered, its trickling water barely audible against the occasional clip-clop of a horse’s hooves or the soft murmur of villagers going about their day. To one side of the square was the blacksmith’s shop, with its distinctive smell of charred metal and ash, while on the other side, a small bakery released warm, comforting scents of freshly baked bread each morning.

Mr. Fawley’s clock shop looked down on all of this like a lord surveying his kingdom. Its slender frame and dark wood beams seemed almost out of place against the more modest architecture of the village. The walls were a faded white, standing in contrast to the neatly painted green shutters that flanked each window. Inside, an array of clocks lined the walls, from delicate pocket watches to grand wooden grandfather clocks, each one tick-tocking in perfect synchrony—until recently, that is.

For years, Mr. Fawley had kept the village running on time, his clocks marking the rhythm of daily life in Cosmeston. To the villagers, it was almost as if time itself flowed from his shop, and they respected him for it. But they were also wary. There was something about the tall, stern clockmaker, with his sharp gaze and neatly combed silver hair, that made people lower their voices when he passed.

Cosmeston was a quiet place, full of muted colours and gentle sounds, its life measured by the rhythmic hourly chime of the church bell in the distance and, of course, by the steady ticking that once emanated from Mr. Fawley’s shop.

Fawley was known for his precision. He wore a pocket watch with a gold chain, which he consulted every few minutes. It was as if he lived a half-step ahead of the world, predicting each moment with perfect accuracy. This exactness extended to his behaviour. He expected his tea at five, his shop to close at six, and his dinner on the table by seven. He ran his household like clockwork, his timid wife moving silently, each task measured and managed. She knew better than to disturb his order.

In the village, he was a figure of authority. He might be curt, dismissive, and downright mean to those he deemed unworthy, but he was still the clockmaker. People needed him to set their watches right, to fix their timepieces, to keep their lives in tune. And Fawley liked to think they admired him for it.

As the door to the shop creaked open, Jack Taylor crept in, a scrap of envelope clutched tightly in his small, calloused hand. Twelve years old, thin as a reed and dressed in clothes that had seen too many winters, he hesitated on the threshold, eyeing the gleaming wood-and-brass pendulums, the delicate chains, and the intricate mechanisms on display. Jack wasn’t one to linger; this was the territory of Mr. Fawley, a man so fearsome to the villagers that people preferred to tap on the window and shout from the street rather than venture inside.

Jack clutched the letter from the post office. His instructions had been clear: Deliver it quickly, don’t linger, and certainly don’t speak unless spoken to. Mrs. Richards at the post office had warned him about Mr. Fawley and his temper, the way he could “look through you like you were a stain on the floor.”

Jack took a breath, then took a single, tentative step further into the shop, boots clomping louder than he’d meant them to. He could already hear Mr. Fawley’s disapproving sniff as he turned from behind the counter, eyes narrowing with irritation at the disruption.

“What do you think you’re doing, boy?” Mr. Fawley snapped, his voice as sharp as the clock hands he meticulously polished each morning. “Wipe your feet before you traipse in here!”

“Yes, sir,” Jack stammered, lowering his head as he scuffed his feet against the mat by the door, though the mud had already dropped in small clumps on the wooden floor.

Mr. Fawley sighed, making a point of wiping an invisible spot on the counter, as though even Jack’s presence might somehow soil the carefully curated space around him. Jack moved forward, his eyes flicking down to the letter in his hands and didn’t notice the edge of a low stool sticking out from the corner of the display case. His foot caught, and with a gasp, he stumbled forward, hand slamming into the edge of the counter. The letter fell from his grasp, but worse still, his elbow clipped the face of a delicate old clock, sending it toppling to the ground with a sickening crunch of glass and wood.

The room went silent. Mr. Fawley’s face paled, then turned an ugly shade of red as he sucked in a breath. Jack dropped to his knees, heart pounding as he stared at the ruined clock scattered across the floorboards. He reached out a trembling hand to gather the pieces, but Fawley’s boot intercepted him, pressing down on his small, dirt-streaked hand with just enough pressure to make him wince.

“Don’t. You. Dare,” Fawley growled, his voice low. “Do you know what you’ve done, you careless brat? That was an original from 1865—worth more than your life, I’d wager!”