Chapter 35: The Clock in the Attic

"Some things don't measure time—they hold it."

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Krish had always known there was a clock in the attic.

Not the kind that ticked in rhythm with the world, but an old, wooden grandfather clock that had stopped before he was born.

It stood in the corner of the attic, buried beneath cloth, dust, and the weight of forgotten seasons.

Papa used to mention it occasionally. "It doesn't work, but it remembers everything."

Krish never understood what that meant. But now, with his hands full of time, and his heart carrying more yesterdays than tomorrows, he decided to climb the stairs.

The attic door groaned open. The air smelled of wood, paper, and quiet.

He stepped in slowly, crouching slightly to avoid the low beams. The light bulb flickered dimly, a soft orange glow like memory's breath.

In the corner, behind old trunks and boxes of festival lights, it stood. Tall. Silent. Heavy.

The grandfather clock.

Its glass was fogged with dust, its hands frozen at 2:47.

Krish approached like he was waking someone. He wiped the glass gently. The wood was dark, smooth. Its carvings were familiar. He had seen them in his childhood dreams— a lion, a vine, a feather at the base.

He touched the face. The hands didn't move. Of course not. But something inside him did.

He opened the back hatch. Inside: a folded cloth, a broken chain, and a note in Papa's handwriting:

"If time stands still, maybe it's waiting to be noticed again."

He sat on a crate, the note in his lap.

He remembered Papa winding the clock once, maybe twice. "It's not broken, just tired."

Krish searched the attic. Found the key in a drawer beneath an old radio. It was small. Simple. Cool to the touch.

He returned to the clock. Inserted the key. Turned.

Click. Click.

Then silence.

And then, so softly he nearly missed it— a tick.

Then another. And another.

The clock began to breathe again.

Not fast. Not loud. Just enough.

Krish stepped back. Watched the pendulum swing. It was like watching someone return from sleep.

He didn't cheer. Didn't speak. Just watched. And inside him, something aligned.

He sat again. Pulled out his notebook. Began to write:

"Dear Papa, The clock moved today. After years of waiting.

I used to think it was broken. But now I think it was just waiting for someone who needed it to breathe again.

You said time was strange. That it doesn't always pass in hours or days, but in moments. In laughter. In the sound of footsteps returning home.

And maybe this clock, this attic, this quiet space above the world— it was always meant to be a place where time could pause, not to forget, but to remember."

He closed the notebook. Listened. Tick. Tick.

It was the most beautiful sound he'd heard in weeks.

Later, he called Ma upstairs.

She climbed slowly, ducked under the beams.

When she saw the clock, she stopped.

"It's working?"

Krish nodded. "Just needed someone to turn the key."

She stepped forward. Touched it. Her fingers trembled.

"I used to hear it when I was pregnant with you. It was our lullaby."

Krish looked at her. Then at the clock.

"It's yours again now."

That night, they carried it downstairs. Cleaned it. Dusted it. Placed it in the corner of the living room, where the sun could kiss it every morning.

When the chime rang at 3:00 the next day, it echoed through the house like a voice that had never truly gone quiet.

They stood beside it. Not saying anything. Just listening.

Because some sounds aren't for talking over. They are for remembering with.

Krish sat beside the clock. Wrote one last sentence on a torn page:

"Some clocks tick forward. Some tick inward. This one ticks in memory."

And when the hour struck, he closed his eyes, and let the chime ring through every room his father once touched.