The Watchmaker and the Forgotten Moments

At the end of a small street, there was a watch-repair shop tucked beneath a weathered awning. The shop’s sign was not large; it showed only a blue minute hand on a brown wooden background. After many years of sun and rain, the paint had peeled away in patches, but the two hands on the sign still showed the correct time. People in the neighborhood called it Mr. Nhan’s shop, although hardly anyone knew his real name.

Mr. Nhan repaired all kinds of clocks and watches. There were wristwatches with scratched faces, grandfather clocks that had stood still since their owners passed away, and even cheap alarm clocks that people usually thought would be easier to replace than to have repaired. He never asked how much an item was worth. He simply placed it on a cloth, opened the back, and patiently searched for which gear had shifted, which spring had weakened, or what dust had caused the mechanism to stop moving.

The shop always smelled of machine oil and old wood, with the sounds of ticking layered over one another. The sound made many people impatient, but to Mr. Nhan, it was the most peaceful sound in the world. He said that every clock had its own rhythm, just as every person had their own way of making their way through life. Some people ran fast, some moved slowly, and some seemed to have stopped but were actually only in need of a sufficiently patient hand.

The Girl Who Was Always Late

One afternoon at the beginning of the rainy season, a girl named An entered the shop. She was about twelve years old and wore a yellow raincoat that was frayed at the sleeves. In her hands was a small alarm clock with a white plastic case and a glass face cracked diagonally.

“Could you repair it for me?” An placed the clock on the table.

Mr. Nhan picked it up, shook it gently, and held it to his ear. “I can. But it isn’t badly damaged.”

“It doesn’t ring anymore. I have to get up early tomorrow.”

“Where are you going?”

An lowered her head and traced the crack on the glass with her finger. “I have to get to school before seven. My mother said that if I’m late again, my teacher won’t let me join the art team.”

Mr. Nhan did not ask why she did not ask her mother to wake her. He simply removed the back of the clock and used a small brush to sweep away the thin layer of dust clinging around the gears. An watched intently. She said nothing, but her eyes never left the tiny movements beneath his hands.

“You can go home,” he told her. “Come back for it tomorrow morning.”

“How much will it cost?”

“We’ll figure that out after it’s repaired.”

An shook her head. “I only have this much.”

She took three small coins from her pocket and placed them neatly on the table. Mr. Nhan pushed one coin back toward her.

“Two coins are enough.”

“But you haven’t finished repairing it.”

“Then leave two coins. Tomorrow morning, if the clock is running, I’ll keep them. If it isn’t, I’ll give them back.”

An thought for a moment, then nodded. Before stepping out the door, she turned back and asked, “Are you ever late?”

Mr. Nhan laughed. “Of course. Everyone has been late at some point.”

“But you repair clocks.”

“Being able to repair a clock doesn’t mean you can control time.”

The Shop’s Customers

The next morning, An arrived while the street was still not crowded. The alarm clock was running; its ringing was slightly raspy but loud enough. Mr. Nhan replaced its old mainspring and cleaned the glass face. He did not charge her anything extra.

From that day on, An often stopped by the shop. At first she came to check on the clock. Later she came because she liked sitting and listening to Mr. Nhan’s stories. He told her that one person had brought in a clock because they wanted it to run on time again for their daughter’s wedding day. Someone else had come after moving house, asking him to restore a wall clock that had spent ten years in a cardboard box. An old woman had once brought in her husband’s pocket watch, not because it still worked, but because she wanted to hear again the sound of its lid popping open, like on the mornings when he used to prepare for work.

An asked, “What if a clock can’t be repaired?”

“Then we clean it and put it somewhere respectable.”

“But what good does that do?”

Mr. Nhan set down the screwdriver. “Some things are no longer used to measure time, but they can still help people remember whom they once loved.”

An did not fully understand what he meant. She only knew that Mr. Nhan’s shop had a wooden shelf beside the window. On the shelf were clocks that could not be repaired: one missing its hands, one with a shattered face, one rusted through, and one that remained silent even after he had replaced almost all of its parts. Each had a small slip of paper bearing the sender’s name and the date it had been brought in. There was no price tag, nor any sign that they would be returned.

“Why don’t you throw them away?” An asked.

“Because someone isn’t ready to throw them away.”

The Day the Large Clock Stopped

That winter, the large clock hanging on the old building at the end of the street suddenly stopped. People heard the news early in the morning. The clock had been there for so long that many children who grew up nearby imagined it had existed before the street itself. Every hour, its chimes rang down over the rooftops, slipping into restaurants, classrooms, and rooms with open windows.

The building’s management called another repairman to inspect it. He said the mechanism was too old and that replacing it would be faster. But an old man who lived in the house across the street firmly refused. He went to Mr. Nhan’s shop and asked him to try repairing it.

“What if it can’t be done?” the old man asked.

“I’ll tell you honestly that it can’t.”

“And if it can?”

“Then it will run, but it won’t be able to return to the way it was on its first day.”

Mr. Nhan took his tools to the building. An went with him. They spent the entire morning removing each part of the mechanism. The gears inside were covered with a thick layer of dust. One axle was bent, and the bell was cracked along the edge.

An looked at the parts scattered across the cloth and asked, “Will you be sad if you can’t repair it?”

“Yes.”

“Then why do you still do it?”

“Because sadness is not a reason to refuse something meaningful.”

They worked until afternoon. Mr. Nhan straightened the axle, found a compatible gear in storage, and reinforced the bell with a thin piece of metal. When he put the mechanism back together, the hour hand moved slightly. The minute hand trembled, stopped, and then continued moving.

At exactly six o’clock in the evening, the first chime rang down over the street. The sound was no longer as clear as before; it was somewhat hoarse and dull, but everyone looked up. The old man across the street stood by the window and wiped his eyes. An looked at Mr. Nhan. The repairman’s face was covered in grease, and his shoulders were exhausted, but he only smiled as he heard the sixth chime.

“It isn’t perfect,” An said.

“Something imperfect can still mark an important moment.”

Time That Cannot Be Measured by Clock Hands

A few months later, An’s mother had to go to the hospital for treatment. The house, which was already small, became even quieter. An no longer came to the shop regularly. She had to help her grandmother cook, look after her younger brother, and take care of her schoolwork on her own. The old alarm clock still sat on the table, but on many days she did not hear it ring because she had been awake almost all night.

One afternoon, An pushed open the shop door with dark circles under her eyes. Mr. Nhan did not ask questions right away. He poured her a cup of warm water and placed a small clock in front of her.

“Whose is this?”

“Mine.”

“Are you giving it to me?”

“No. I’m asking you to keep it for me.”

An picked up the clock. It had no second hand, only an hour hand and a minute hand. The dial had yellowed, but every mark remained clear.

“It runs two minutes slow every day,” he said. “Don’t try to adjust it.”

“Why not?”

“So you’ll remember that there are days when you don’t need to keep pace perfectly with everyone else.”

An looked down at the clock face. She told him about her mother, the assignments she had not finished, and her fear that if she was not selected for the art team, all her efforts would have been pointless. Mr. Nhan listened, nodding only from time to time. He did not tell her that she had to be strong, nor did he say that everything would be all right eventually. When An finished speaking, he simply handed her a clean cloth.

“You’re allowed to be sad,” he said. “But don’t use your sadness to conclude that there is nothing worth waiting for tomorrow.”

In the days that followed, An continued diligently practicing her drawing. She drew her mother’s hospital room, the thin hand clasping hers, the glass of water by the window, and a small clock that ran two minutes slow every day. Her painting was not chosen for the team. Her teacher commented that the painting was not quite complete, but that there was something very sincere about it.

An was sad, but for the first time she did not think she had failed completely. She brought the painting to the shop to show Mr. Nhan. He hung it on the wall behind the counter, where previously there had only been a few screwdrivers and pieces of mainsprings.

“Why did you hang it up? This painting isn’t beautiful.”

“It reminds me that people can draw even when they are worried inside.”

When the Repairman Could No Longer Repair Clocks

Many years passed. The small street changed, and the old shops were repainted one after another. The large clock at the end of the street was still there; its chimes had grown weaker but had never disappeared completely. An grew up, went away to study, and then returned to work at a design studio. Whenever she came home, she always stopped by Mr. Nhan’s shop.

But one rainy season, the shop remained tightly shut. When An asked around, she learned that Mr. Nhan’s eyesight had deteriorated and he could no longer see the small parts clearly. He had planned to retire completely because he did not want to accept a clock and then make its owner wait.

An entered the shop and saw that the clocks on the wall were still ticking, but the repair table was covered with a thin layer of dust.

“You’re really not repairing clocks anymore?”

“My eyes aren’t good anymore.”

“I can repair them in your place.”

Mr. Nhan smiled. “You only know how to replace straps and wipe away dust.”

“Then keep teaching me.”

For many months, An came to the shop every afternoon. She learned how to distinguish the sounds made by different types of mechanisms, how not to use force when turning a tiny screw, and how to record the condition of each clock before taking it apart. More importantly, she learned to ask customers why they wanted to repair the item. Some people needed a clock to use. Others only needed to know that something connected to a memory had not yet been forgotten.

Mr. Nhan could no longer see his own hands clearly, but he could still hear every rhythm of every mechanism. He sat beside An and instructed her in his calm voice. In the beginning, An ruined several clocks. One ran too fast, one made a clattering sound, and one could not be put back together as it had been after she took it apart. She became discouraged and wanted to give up.

“I don’t have your hands,” An said.

“That’s right,” he replied. “And I don’t have your hands either. Someone learning a craft does not need to become a copy of their teacher. They only need to understand what makes the work worth continuing.”

At the end of the year, Mr. Nhan gave An the shop key. He held no handover ceremony and made no grand speeches. He only told her to remember to clean the sign once a month and not to hastily throw away clocks that could not be repaired.

“Because someone isn’t ready to throw them away,” An repeated.

Mr. Nhan smiled. “Now you understand.”

What Remains After the Ticking

After Mr. Nhan passed away, An kept the wooden shelf beside the window exactly as it was. The old clocks were cleaned and placed beside one another in silence. Some were reclaimed by relatives after many years. Others remained forever, along with the slips of paper bearing names and dates that had faded.

The shop continued to repair clocks, but An also added a small table where children from the neighborhood could sit and draw. She did not charge them when they only wanted to watch the gears move. Sometimes she retold the story of Mr. Nhan, the clock that ran two minutes slow, and the building at the end of the street whose bell had once fallen silent.

An understood that time was not measured only by hour hands, minute hands, or bells ringing at the right moment. Time also existed in the patience of someone sitting and waiting, in the hands that held on to an old object, in unhurried listening, and in the decision to continue doing something meaningful even while knowing that it could not be done perfectly.

Every morning, before opening the shop, An adjusted the clocks that were running incorrectly. As for Mr. Nhan’s clock, she left it as it was. It still ran two minutes slow every day. And whenever she saw it, An remembered that life did not always require us to arrive at the exact second. Sometimes what mattered more was being sincerely present in the moment unfolding, knowing how to cherish the person beside us, and not being too quick to walk away simply because something had grown old, become difficult, or had not yet become perfect.