In a forgotten alley of an old town where leaves danced even when there was no wind, sat a small shop named Tick & Tock. Time had peeled the paint off its wooden door, but inside, time was still alive—chiming, ticking, and swinging gently in hundreds of forms. It was the home of Mr. Bhanu, a clockmaker who had grown older than most of the clocks he repaired.

Nobody knew much about Bhanu. He wasn’t unfriendly, but he wasn’t chatty either. He wore the same dusty brown sweater every day, his hair always combed to one side, glasses always slightly crooked. His fingers were thin but skilled, made for the delicate dance of screws, gears, and springs.

He’d been building and fixing clocks for over forty years. From grandfathers to cuckoos, wristwatches to wall pendulums—he could mend anything that told time. People trusted him. But they never stayed long. They came in, left their timepieces, and left.

And he never asked questions.

When a customer came in and said, “It should be 2:40,” he’d simply nod and adjust the clock to 2:40.
When someone else came in an hour later and said, “This must be set to 4:10,” he’d again nod, without hesitation.

It didn’t matter what time it really was. It mattered what time they believed it was. Bhanu never argued, never checked. Just adjusted. Just obeyed.

Clocks filled every inch of the shop. They ticked and tocked and chimed all at once, each to a different rhythm. A visitor once joked, “This place sounds like a mad orchestra.”

Bhanu had just smiled.

But he never noticed the madness himself. It had become background noise to him—just like the emptiness in his chest.

Many years ago, his wife Meera used to sit in that same shop with him. She didn’t know clocks, but she’d hum old songs while sweeping the floors, or serve tea to customers who stayed too long. She had eyes full of mischief and a laugh that still echoed in the wood. They never had children, but somehow the shop felt full when she was around.

Then one morning, she didn’t wake up.

Just like that, she stopped ticking. And so did Bhanu, in his own way.

He didn’t cry much. Just buried her, and the next day, went back to the shop. Business as usual. He made new clocks. Fixed broken ones. Set times for others. But never touched her clock—the one she had gifted him on their 10th anniversary. A small, golden desk clock shaped like a lotus flower. When she gave it to him, she had said, “So you don’t lose track of time, old man.”

He had laughed. He didn’t know how much that line would haunt him.

That clock stopped ticking the day she passed. And Bhanu never tried to fix it.

Years passed. Seasons changed. The city grew noisier. New buildings came up, but Tick & Tock remained like a stubborn wrinkle in the map—old, slow, and unnoticed.

Then, one monsoon evening, when the sky was weeping over the roofs and the drains were drunk with rain, a little girl stepped into the shop. Her hair was stuck to her face, her school shoes squelching with every step. She looked no older than nine.

She held out a small, wet wristwatch.

“Uncle, can you fix my papa’s watch? It stopped after he went away,” she said.

Bhanu gently took the watch and opened its backplate. “Of course, beta. What time should I set it to?”

The girl thought for a second, then asked, “What time do you follow, uncle?”

The question hit him like cold water.

He blinked.

“What do you mean?” he asked softly.

“I mean… what time is your time? All these clocks show different things. Which one is yours?”

Bhanu didn’t answer. He looked around his shop. For the first time in what felt like forever, he noticed. One clock said 12:03. Another said 8:47. One on the shelf showed 6:00 sharp. None matched. Not even his own wristwatch—it had stopped long ago, he realized.

The girl was right. What was his time?

He cleared his throat, suddenly unsure of his voice. “I’m not sure anymore,” he murmured.

The girl smiled, with that strange clarity children sometimes have. “Everyone has a time, uncle. Even broken ones. You just have to fix them.”

Then she wiped her nose on her sleeve and skipped out, leaving behind silence… and the small broken watch.

Bhanu stood still for a long time.

He thought of Meera. Of the way she used to tap the desk when he lost track of hours. Of her clock. The lotus one.

His heart clenched.

That night, he didn’t go home. He stayed in the shop, lit a single lamp, and picked up Meera’s clock from its dusty corner.

It was rusted. The gears were stiff. The hands bent.

But as he opened it, something inside cracked. A tear. Maybe two. He wiped them without noticing.

With slow fingers, he polished the brass, realigned the hands, oiled the gears. He worked through the night like a man possessed—not by obsession, but by longing. A quiet, burning ache that had been waiting too long.

When the clock finally ticked again, a faint tick… tick… tick, he broke down.

He wept like a child.

For the time he had lost.

For the love he hadn’t let himself grieve.

For all the clocks he had adjusted for others while his own life stayed paused.

As the rain stopped and the sun shyly peeked over the rooftops, Bhanu stood up, held Meera’s clock to his heart, and smiled.

He walked around the shop and, one by one, set every single clock to the same time.

His time.

From that day, Tick & Tock wasn’t just a place of repairs. It was a place of memory, of healing, and of rhythm.

And if you ever visit, you’ll notice something strange.

Every clock in the shop ticks in unison.

As if they’re all following one heart.

His.

Moral / Realisation

In trying to fix everyone else’s time, we often forget to listen to our own. But no matter how long it’s been, even a stopped heart can tick again… when it finally remembers what it was waiting for.