The Clockmaker’s Last Customer

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By Osuolale Oluwatomilayo 

In a small town that seemed to be slowly fading into silence, there stood an old shop tucked between a bakery and a bookstore. Its wooden sign read “Adeyemi & Sons: Clockmakers Since 1892.”

There were no “sons” anymore. Just Mr. Adeyemi, a frail man with steady hands and tired eyes. The shop was a strange place, alive with hundreds of ticking sounds, grandfather clocks towering in corners, pocket watches lined in velvet cases, cuckoo clocks bursting out in cheerful chirps at odd intervals.

But the truth was simple: nobody bought clocks anymore. Everyone carried time in their pockets, glowing on their phones. Customers rarely came, and those who did were usually collectors. Yet, every morning, Mr. Adeyemi put on his apron, polished the brass faces until they shone, and wound every clock as if they were children that needed care.

Time, to him, was not something to be measured. It was something to be kept alive.

One rainy evening, just as he was about to lock the door, a little girl slipped inside. She was no older than ten, her school uniform slightly damp, her shoes squeaking on the wooden floor. In her hands, she carried something wrapped in a handkerchief.

She placed it gently on the counter. When she unfolded the cloth, Mr. Adeyemi saw a shattered hourglass. Its glass was cracked, its frame dented, and most of its sand spilled.

The girl’s eyes were wide and earnest. “Can you fix time?” she asked.

The old man chuckled softly, though his voice carried a hint of sorrow. “My dear, I can fix clocks, not time.”

But the girl shook her head. “No, this is time. It belonged to my grandmother. She always said when the sand runs out, her time is done. And today, it broke.” Her voice trembled. “She’s very sick, sir. Please.”

Mr. Adeyemi stared at the broken hourglass. Something inside him stirred, an ache he hadn’t felt in years. He remembered his own wife, gone long ago, and how powerless he had felt watching her slip away.

“Leave it with me,” he said gently.

That night, while the town slept, he sat beneath the dim glow of his lamp and worked. His tools were made for gears and springs, not fragile sand. Yet, with patience, he mended the cracks, polished the glass, and reforged the frame. He added a special touch too, inside the hourglass, the sand now shimmered faintly, like golden dust that caught the light.

By dawn, it was whole again.

The girl returned early the next morning, her eyes hopeful. Mr. Adeyemi handed her the restored hourglass.

She flipped it over, and to both their amazement, the sand began to flow, smooth, endless, glowing faintly as though alive.

Her face lit up. “You did fix time!” she whispered, clutching it to her chest.

Mr. Adeyemi smiled, though his eyes were misted. “Take good care of it, child. And of your grandmother too.”

The girl ran out, her laughter echoing in the quiet street.

The next day, the townsfolk noticed the shop remained closed. At first, they thought nothing of it. But when it stayed shut for three days, someone finally peered through the dusty windows.

Inside, every clock had stopped. The hands of the grandfather clocks, the cuckoo clocks, the pocket watches, all frozen at the exact same moment: 12:07.

When they finally entered, they found Mr. Adeyemi seated at his workbench, his head resting peacefully on his arms, as if he had simply fallen asleep.

But he would not wake again.

The girl returned later, holding the glowing hourglass in her hands. Her grandmother was recovering, stronger than she had been in months. As she stood in the silent shop, she whispered: “Thank you, sir. You really did fix time.”

And though every clock in the room remained still, the little hourglass continued to flow, its golden sand falling endlessly, keeping its own rhythm, as though carrying forward the last heartbeat of the clockmaker.