Chapter 20: The Grandfather’s Promise

The workshop smelled like cedar and lemon polish. Ella was on her knees, squinting at the inner workings of a grandfather clock—its case scratched, its pendulum rusted, but its face still bearing the faint engraving of a name: H. Carter, 1963.

"Tough one?" Sebastian asked, setting a mug of tea beside her. He'd taken to bringing her drinks mid-morning, a quiet ritual that made her chest feel warm.

She nodded, wiping a smudge of oil from her cheek. "Mr. Carter brought it in yesterday. Said his dad built it, but never finished. Died before he could hang it in their old house." She tapped a bent gear with her screwdriver. "Looks like he was experimenting—added a second chime, for… something. The notes are off. Like he was reaching for a melody he couldn't quite catch."

Sebastian knelt beside her, studying the clock's face. "Your granddad's ledger mentioned a 'Carter' once. Said he 'fixed a clock to sing for a daughter's wedding.'"

Ella's head shot up. "Really?"

He pulled the leather ledger from the shelf behind them—they'd found it tucked in Isabella's bookshelf, hidden between a novel and a box of rose seeds. It was worn, its pages filled with Elias's neat handwriting: names, dates, small notes. "Mrs. Hale: pocket watch, stopped at the time her husband came home from the war. Chime tuned to 'their song.'" "Tommy, 8: broken toy clock, 'needs to tell time so I can wait for mom.' Fixed with extra sparkles."

He flipped to a page marked 1964. "Harold Carter: grandfather clock, in progress. Wants it to chime 'for my boy, when he's ready to stand tall.' Said the first chime should be 'brave.'"

Ella smiled. "That's it. Harold was Mr. Carter's dad. He was building this clock for his son—so it would chime when Mr. Carter 'stood tall.'" She traced the rusted pendulum. "But he never got to finish."

The bell above the door jangled. Mr. Carter stepped in, a weathered man with a cane, his hat in his hands. "Sorry to bother—just… wanted to check. No rush, of course."

Ella stood, brushing off her apron. "Actually, I think I found something. Can you tell me about your dad? Was he… musical?"

Mr. Carter's eyes softened. "Loved his harmonica. Used to play while he worked. Said 'clocks and music are the same—both about rhythm.' But he got quiet, toward the end. Doctor said it was his heart, but… I think he was sad. Mom left when I was a kid, you see. He never quite got over it."

Ella nodded, turning back to the clock. She adjusted a spring, then a lever, her fingers moving like they remembered the rhythm Harold Carter had intended. "Hold on. Let's try something."

She wound the key. The clock hummed to life, gears turning with a slow, steady click. Then—chime. Not the deep, booming note of most grandfather clocks, but a clear, bright melody: two notes, then a trill, like a harmonica's cheer.

Mr. Carter froze. "That's… that's the tune he used to play. When I'd come home from school. He'd say 'that's my boy's song.'" His voice cracked. "I thought he forgot. That I wasn't… enough to finish for."

Ella shook her head, handing him a small piece of paper she'd found tucked in the clock's base: a scrap of Harold's handwriting, smudged but legible. "For my Henry—when you stop hiding behind that cane, when you stop thinking you're 'not enough'—this clock will sing. You're brave, son. Even if you don't know it yet."

Mr. Carter read it, then pressed it to his chest, tears sliding down his cheeks. "He knew. All this time, he knew."

Sebastian clapped him gently on the back. "Want to help us hang it? We've got a corner in the shop—could use a little more music."

By afternoon, the grandfather clock stood in the far corner, its chime joining the symphony of the workshop. Mr. Carter lingered, telling stories of Harold ("He'd burn toast, but by God, he could fix a clock"), while Ethan tried (and failed) to teach the cuckoo clock to "sing along" with it.

Ella's father wandered over, sipping tea, and nodded at the ledger on the workbench. "Your granddad would be proud. This place—what you're doing—it's exactly what he talked about. 'A shop where time heals, not just ticks.'"

Ella smiled, flipping through the ledger to a blank page. She picked up a pen, wrote "Ella White, 2025" at the top, then paused.

"What?" Sebastian asked, noticing her hesitation.

She glanced around: Mr. Carter laughing with Ethan, her father chatting with Mrs. Higgins (who'd snuck in with her cat, now curled on the register), the bluebird clock chiming softly in the window.

"Nothing," she said, writing the first entry: "Grandfather clock, H. Carter. Chimed today. For a son who finally heard how brave he is."

She closed the ledger, and Sebastian wrapped his arms around her, resting his chin on her shoulder.

"Ready for the next one?" he asked.

Ella looked up at the clock tower visible through the window, its hands inching toward five. Somewhere, a bell rang.

"Always," she said.

Outside, the sun dipped low, painting the street in gold. Inside, the workshop hummed—with gears, with laughter, with the quiet, steady rhythm of stories being mended.

Time, as it turned out, was never just about moving forward.

Sometimes, it was about coming home.