Silas turned the tiny brass gear in his calloused fingers. The shop was dead silent except for the steady tick of a grandfather clock in the corner. Dust motes danced in the pale afternoon sun that cut through the dirty glass window. For fifty years, Silas fixed broken timepieces for the people of the town. He mended small pocket watches dropped in mud and grand mantle clocks that had stopped ticking on wedding days.Today felt different. On his wooden workbench sat an unusual clock. It had no maker mark. Its face was made of dark, polished slate, and the hands moved backward in smooth, silent sweeps. When Silas pressed his ear to the case, he did not hear springs or gears. He heard the faint sound of ocean waves hitting a distant shore.He picked up his finest tweezer. He touched the central pivot. A sudden warmth rushed up his arm. The ticking stopped. The air in the small room smelled of salt and rain. Suddenly, the shadows in the corners of his shop began to stretch and shift, revealing small golden doors embedded right into the old stone walls. Silas smiled. He had spent his whole life measuring time, but he realized now that he had only just begun to see where it could lead him. He picked a tiny golden key from his drawer and stepped forward.