Chapter 0013: The Clock That Skipped a Beat
That night, I didn't sleep.
The letter stayed folded in my pocket, warm from being held too long.
My fingers kept brushing against it, as if touching it might keep me from forgetting it was real.
As if she was real.
Lena.
Her name echoed inside me like it had always been there, just beneath my skin.
When I finally drifted off near dawn, I dreamed of clocks.
Clocks that ticked backward.
Clocks that melted.
Clocks with no hands — just mirrors, showing me versions of myself I didn't recognize.
And through it all, I heard Leo's voice.
"Some doors only open once."
I woke with those words in my throat.
The bookstore was unusually quiet the next day.
Not peaceful — quiet in that too-still way before a thunderstorm.
Even the bell above the door hesitated before ringing when I came in.
Leo was behind the counter, just like always.
But his eyes found mine like he'd been waiting for hours.
"Morning," I said, pretending things were normal.
He didn't smile.
"You dreamed," he said softly.
I froze.
"How did you—?"
He stepped out from behind the counter. "This place… it touches the corners of sleep, sometimes. Especially when it wants something."
I looked around at the shelves.
The air felt thicker today. Like the store was listening again.
"Is that what it's doing now?" I whispered. "Wanting something?"
Leo didn't answer.
Instead, he handed me something — a small pocket watch.
Gold. Worn smooth.
Still ticking.
I opened it.
The hands moved… but not forward.
They circled backward, slowly, steadily.
And beneath the glass, where numbers should've been, were tiny letters instead. Words, curved around the edge.
"Return what was never taken. Find what was never lost."
I stared at it.
"What does it mean?"
Leo ran a hand through his hair. He looked tired. Like someone who had been holding back time with his bare hands for far too long.
"That belonged to Lena," he said. "I found it yesterday. In the poetry section."
A chill slipped down my spine.
"But Lena's gone."
"She is," he said. "And she isn't."
Later, I wandered through the bookstore on my own.
Room after room that didn't used to exist seemed to unfold before me.
Hallways I'd never seen. Windows that looked out into fog, even though the building had no second floor.
I followed a narrow passage behind the biographies.
It led to a room I swear wasn't there the day before.
Inside: clocks.
Hundreds of them.
On walls. On tables. Hanging from the ceiling like strange fruit.
All ticking in strange, uneven rhythms.
And in the center of the room — a grandfather clock that wasn't ticking at all.
The pendulum was still.
I stepped closer.
Its wooden frame was carved with vines and stars — the same symbol that had been on the door to the memory room… and on Lena's letter seal.
The key was in the lock.
I reached out.
But before I could touch it—
The pendulum moved.
Just once.
A slow, aching swing… and then it stopped again.
I backed away.
And behind me, I heard a sound that didn't belong.
Breathing.
Not mine.
I turned—
No one.
Just shadows. And shelves.
But on the floor… a single photograph.
New.
Still warm.
I picked it up with shaking fingers.
It was a picture of Leo. Me. And again—Lena.
But this time, I was younger.
A child.
Maybe six years old.
Sitting on the floor, reading a book.
Lena beside me, pointing at something in the pages.
Leo, standing in the doorway, watching us with that same sad smile.
I almost dropped it.
Because I remembered that moment.
The book. The way I'd felt safe between two people whose names I didn't know.
A memory that had no place in my life.
But it was real.
My head spun.
Had I been here before?
Had I known Lena?
Had she known me?
I ran back to the front of the store.
"Leo," I gasped, slamming the photograph down. "What is this? Why do I remember it?"
He looked at the photo.
And then… his eyes changed.
Not shocked.
Not surprised.
Remembering.
"I thought it might be you," he said.
"You knew?" My voice cracked. "Knew what?"
He reached out and took my hand — not gently, not carefully, but like someone holding onto a ledge.
"Lena brought you here once," he said. "Years ago. Just once. You were little. Lost."
My heart thudded so loud it drowned out the clocks.
"You remember me?"
He nodded. "You asked about the stars carved into the walls. You called the memory room the dreaming room. You fell asleep in her lap."
I pressed a hand to my chest.
That memory — that feeling — it wasn't a dream.
"But why don't I remember until now?" I whispered.
"The store… it hides things. Keeps them quiet. Until it's time."
He looked at me like he was seeing me again for the first time.
"It's time, Emma."
That night, I stayed late again.
The store never asked me to.
It just… didn't let me leave.
Or maybe I didn't want to.
Leo lit the candle again. The same one from the night before.
Its flame flickered blue this time.
"I think the store wants to open the next door," he said.
I nodded, though I didn't understand.
"What if I'm not ready?" I asked.
He smiled faintly. "No one ever is."
We stood in the silence for a while.
Outside, the wind picked up. Rain whispered against the glass.
"Do you think Lena's still here?" I asked.
Leo looked toward the back of the store.
"I think… she never fully left."
I swallowed.
And then I said the thing I didn't want to say but couldn't hold in.
"If you still love her, I understand."
He turned to me sharply.
"I loved her," he said. "But love doesn't run out."
He stepped closer.
"It grows. It changes. It finds new ways to live."
And then, before I could think — he kissed me.
Not long. Not rushed.
Just enough.
Enough to make the clocks in the other room skip a beat.
Enough to make the bookstore breathe again.
And somewhere, deep below the floorboards, a door unlocked.