Chapter 19: The West Wing

The castle loomed through the morning mist, spires cutting into the gray sky like broken teeth. Ella's fingers tapped against the car door—nerves, not impatience. Sebastian had been quiet since they left the workshop, his jaw set, eyes fixed on the road.

"You used to come here as a kid?" she asked, breaking the silence.

He glanced over, a faint smile tugging at his lips. "Every summer. Grandma would let me run wild in the gardens. She'd sit on the terrace, drinking tea, and yell 'Don't touch the roses!' when I got too close. They were her favorites—black ones, imported from France." He paused. "Uncle Alistair hated it. Said the gardens were a waste of money. That the castle should be a hotel, not a 'mausoleum.'"

"Your grandmother said no?"

"Until she died. Then he tried to argue I was 'too young' to inherit. That he should 'manage' things. But Grandma left a will—airtight. Said the castle stays in the family, but only if they care for it. Not turn it into a tourist trap." He pulled into the gravel driveway, the car crunching to a stop. "She loved this place. Like it was alive."

Ella opened her door, breathing in the cold air—damp, with a hint of ivy. The castle's stone walls were covered in it, climbing toward the windows like fingers.

Sebastian led her through the front door, which creaked open as if greeting them. The foyer was grand but faded: a chandelier with half its bulbs missing, a staircase with a runner frayed at the edges, portraits of Sebastian's ancestors staring down from the walls—all serious faces, except one: a woman with warm eyes and a mischievous smile, her hair pinned with a rose.

"That's her," Ella said, nodding at the portrait.

"Grandma. Isabella." Sebastian's voice softened. "She had this clock in her sitting room. The west wing. Said it was a gift from her father—same as your bluebird clock, in a way. A storyteller's clock."

The west wing was locked. Sebastian pulled a key from his pocket—brass, worn smooth—and turned it. The lock clicked, and the door swung open, releasing a cloud of dust.

"Jesus," Ella coughed, waving it away. "When was the last time someone was in here?"

"Not since Grandma died. Uncle Alistair had it sealed. Said it was 'full of clutter.'" He flipped a light switch; a bulb flickered to life, casting a dim glow over the room.

It wasn't clutter. It was a time capsule. A writing desk covered in papers, a armchair with a knit blanket draped over it, a bookshelf overflowing with novels and journals. And in the corner, a empty space—exactly the size of Voss's wooden box.

"This is where the clock stood," Sebastian said, gesturing to the space.

Ella wandered to the desk, running her finger over a leather journal. The cover was embossed with a date: 1998. She opened it, the pages crackling.

"July 12th. Sebastian's eighth birthday. He tried to 'fix' the clock today—said the chime was 'too sad.' Used his toy screwdriver. I let him. Better to let him tinker than fear breaking things. Alistair called it 'coddling.' He wouldn't understand. Some things are worth being gentle with."

Ella smiled, glancing up at Sebastian. "You were a little clockmaker even then."

He shrugged, but his cheeks pinked. "I wanted to make her happy. The clock's chime was sad. Slow. Like it was sighing."

Ella turned the page. More entries: about roses, about Sebastian's first lost tooth, about a "secret" she was keeping—"If Alistair finds it, he'll burn it. But some truths are worth hiding."

Her breath caught. She flipped faster, scanning for more.

"August 3rd. The clock stopped today. Not just the hands—the chime. It went silent. I know what that means. He's found it. The letter. God, let him not hurt Sebastian. Let him not—"

The entry cut off, the ink smudged like she'd dropped the pen in a hurry.

Ella looked up. "What letter? What was she hiding?"

Sebastian was standing by the bookshelf, pulling out a small wooden box—same as Voss's, but plain, no engraving. He opened it, and let out a breath.

Inside was a letter, sealed with wax, and a photo: Isabella, young, laughing, holding a tiny clock—the clock, Ella realized—next to a man with a familiar face.

"Is that…?" Ella leaned in.

"My grandfather. The one who died before I was born. Grandma never talked about him. Said he 'left.'" Sebastian's voice was tight. "But look."

He pointed to the photo's edge, where the man had scrawled a date: 1976. And a name: Elias.

Ella's heart skipped. "Elias? My granddad's name was Elias. He was a clockmaker, too. He died in 1978—car accident."

Sebastian's head shot up. "Your granddad's name was Elias?"

Ella nodded, pulling out her phone to show him a photo—her, at ten, standing next to a man with the same warm eyes as the photo, holding a pocket watch. "Grandma said he loved old clocks. Traveled a lot, fixing them for 'special clients.'"

Sebastian stared at the photo, then at Isabella's journal. "Grandma's clock. Your granddad's name. This isn't a coincidence." He picked up the sealed letter, turning it over. The wax seal had a symbol: a bird, wings spread—exactly like the bluebird on the clock the woman had brought to the shop.

"Open it," Ella said.

He hesitated, then broke the seal. The letter was yellowed, the handwriting neat but hurried.

*"To whoever finds this—my Isabella, if you're reading, I'm sorry. I couldn't stay. Alistair knows about the clocks. About the 'deals'—he thinks they're a secret to weaponize, but they're just stories. People pay us to fix time, yes, but not the kind you measure. The kind you mend. A mother's watch that stopped when her son left. A lover's locket that won't open after a fight. We don't just fix gears—we fix hearts.

Alistair found the ledger. The one with the names. He'll try to use it to ruin you, to take the castle. But he doesn't understand: the ledger's not a weapon. It's a promise. That time heals. That even broken things can tick again.

Tell Sebastian—if you have a son, name him that—love the clocks, but love the people more. And tell the girl who fixes them now—Ella, if you're reading this—your granddad was proud. Of you. Of the hands that mend what's broken.

The clock stops when the truth is found. Let it chime again. Let the stories live."*

Ella's eyes blurred. "He knew. He knew I'd be here."

Sebastian folded the letter, tucking it into his pocket. "He and Grandma were partners. Fixing clocks. Fixing people. Uncle Alistair thought it was a scam—something to blackmail folks with. But it was just… kindness."

A floorboard creaked outside.

Sebastian froze. "Someone's here."

He grabbed Ella's hand, pulling her behind the armchair as the west wing door creaked open. Heavy footsteps echoed through the room.

"Looking for this?" a voice said—Voss, cold and amused.

Ella peeked around the chair. Voss was holding the clock—the one he'd brought to the shop—his fingers tapping its case. Next to him stood a man with gray hair and a scowl: Alistair, Sebastian's uncle.

"Hand it over, Voss," Alistair snapped. "The ledger. Isabella hid it in the clock, didn't she?"

Voss smirked. "Calm down, sir. We just need to open it. See what secrets it's keeping." He pulled out a screwdriver, prying at the clock's base.

Sebastian tensed beside Ella, but she squeezed his hand—wait.

Voss pried the base off. He frowned, reaching inside.

"Nothing," he said, confused. "Just… gears."

Alistair cursed. "She moved it. The old witch—"

"Grandma didn't hide the ledger in the clock," Ella said, stepping out from behind the chair.

Alistair spun, eyes narrowing. "Who are you?"

"Someone who knows clocks. And stories." Ella walked to the desk, picking up Isabella's journal. "Your sister-in-law didn't hide the ledger to protect it. She hid it to bury it. Because it wasn't a weapon. It was a list of people she and Elias helped. People who needed a second chance. You want to hurt them? Go ahead. But the rest of us? We'll keep mending."

Voss stepped toward her, but Sebastian moved in front of her, jaw set. "Get out. Both of you. This castle's mine. And so are the stories."

Alistair stared at them, then laughed—a bitter, hollow sound. "Fine. Keep your ghost stories. But mark my words—this isn't over."

He stalked out, Voss following. The door slammed shut, and silence settled over the room.

Sebastian let out a breath, turning to Ella. "You okay?"

She smiled, holding up the journal. "More than. C'mon. Let's take the clock home. Fix it properly."

Later, back at the workshop, Ella set the clock on her workbench. Sebastian stood beside her, watching as she oiled the gears, adjusted the chime.

"You think it'll work?" he asked.

She nodded, winding the key. "Grandma and Elias built it to tell the truth. Let's let it sing."

She set it down.

The clock ticked once. Twice.

Then, it chimed—a clear, bright sound, like a laugh.

Outside, the sun broke through the clouds. Ethan's voice drifted in from the street: "Hey, Ella! Some guy just brought in a grandfather clock. Says it 'stopped when he met his wife.' You up for it?"

Ella grinned at Sebastian.

"Always," she said.

He kissed her, the clock's chime still echoing, and somewhere, in the quiet of the workshop, two stories—past and present—clicked into place.

Time, finally, was moving forward.