In the heart of a bustling city, tucked between shadowed alleys, stood a tiny clockmaker’s shop. It seemed to exist outside of time itself—its windows dusty, its sign faded. Few dared to enter, but those who did whispered of peculiar encounters.

One rainy evening, a curious boy named Arthur pushed open the creaky door. The shop smelled of old wood and oil, and clocks of every size ticked in perfect unison. Behind the counter sat an old man, his eyes gleaming like polished brass.

“You fix clocks?” Arthur asked, holding up a broken pocket watch.

“Yes,” the clockmaker replied, “but I also fix moments.”

Before Arthur could ask what he meant, the man took the watch, twisted a gear, and handed it back. “Turn the dial when you’re ready.”

Arthur left, puzzled, but later that night, he turned the dial. Suddenly, he was back in the park where he’d dropped the watch—before it shattered. He caught it mid-fall.

The next morning, the shop was gone.