The Clockmaker
by Vincent Augusto – English B
The city of Varnhelm had once trusted only one man with its time — Alaric Voss, the master
clockmaker of the Great Tower.
He was a man of precision and pride, known for creating clocks that never erred, not even by a
second. His workshop sat high above the market square, filled with the hum of ticking gears and
the smell of oil and iron.
But perfection was never enough for Alaric.
He often stood at the window at dusk, watching the sun sink behind the fog-drenched rooftops.
He hated how quickly the light vanished. “Time steals everything,” he would whisper to himself.
“It takes our youth, our work, our love — and gives nothing back.”
One evening, after the tower bells rang their last chime, he locked the door of his workshop and
began his greatest project: to stop time itself.
He studied old texts from scholars and alchemists, theories about the flow of minutes and the
soul’s rhythm.
He filled journals with sketches — circles within circles, gears made of gold and glass.
Months passed. The people of Varnhelm heard the tower bells less often. They said the master
clockmaker had gone mad, that he spoke to the ticking itself.
But Alaric didn’t care. He built day and night, forging a device he called The Heart of Hours —
a pocket watch that could hold time in its center. Its case was carved with symbols he barely
understood, its spring wound with silver thread said to be taken from a star.
When at last the device was complete, Alaric placed it on his workbench. It glowed faintly, the
air around it humming with life. He whispered, “Let time rest,” and wound the key.
The world obeyed.
The gears of the Great Clock Tower froze mid-turn. The rain outside hung in the air. The flame
of his lamp turned to glass. In that perfect silence, Alaric felt powerful — eternal.
Then a voice spoke, soft and endless.
“To command me is to become me.”
The light from the pocket watch grew brighter. Pain shot through his chest. He tried to let go, but
the watch clung to his hand, the gears spinning faster and faster. He screamed as the light
consumed him, and then there was only stillness.
When the city woke the next morning, the Great Tower was silent. The clock had stopped, and
Alaric Voss was gone.
Years turned into decades. The tower rusted, and his name faded from memory. But in the
shadows of the workshop, buried under dust, the pocket watch still ticked — quietly, endlessly.
Yet Alaric was not gone.
He awoke in darkness, surrounded by an infinite ticking.
There were no walls, no floor — only the echo of clocks. He tried to breathe, but the air felt like
metal. He realized, in horror, that he no longer had a body. He was inside the mechanism, his
thoughts trapped in the motion of gears.
“Let me out,” he cried, but the voice of Time answered, “You wished to stop me. Now you will
turn with me forever.”
Centuries passed — or maybe seconds; he couldn’t tell. Time did not move normally there. He
saw moments flicker before him: the rise and fall of cities, the faces of people he’d never met,
the breaking of the tower that had once been his pride.
Sometimes, when a curious hand touched the watch, Alaric felt a brief glimpse of the world
outside. Once, he saw a young boy open the door of his ruined shop. Another time, he felt
himself carried by a hooded stranger. But he could not speak, only whisper faintly through the
watch’s gears.
“Tell me your secret, and I shall tell you the truth…”
It was the only way he could reach beyond the ticking.
Then, one stormy night, something changed. He felt warmth — a pulse of life. Someone had
wound the watch again. Through the haze of gears, he saw a young face — Elias Renn, though
Alaric did not yet know his name.
The boy’s eyes widened as time froze around him. Alaric’s whisper escaped the mechanism, a
breath of his trapped soul.
At last, someone had found him.
But as the boy pulled away, time returned. The connection broke. Alaric was alone again.
For days that felt like years, he waited. He could sense the boy’s curiosity, his approach to the
tower. When the door opened once more, light flooded Alaric’s prison. He felt his spirit gather,
shaping itself into the form he once had.
When Elias stepped into the chamber, Alaric appeared before him — not as a man of flesh, but
as a shimmering echo of who he once was. His voice was heavy with time itself.
“You opened it,” he said softly.
The boy flinched. “Who are you?”
“I am what remains of the clockmaker,” Alaric replied. “I sought to master time — and became
its prisoner.” He gestured to the watch in the boy’s hand. “Now it seeks another keeper.”
Elias shook his head, terrified. “I don’t want this.”
Alaric smiled sadly. “Neither did I. But every tick has a price.”
The tower trembled as the ancient gears began to turn. Alaric felt his strength fading. He reached
toward Elias, voice breaking.
“Free me. Break the cycle. Or take my place.”
The boy hesitated, then smashed the pocket watch. The world burst into golden light. Alaric felt
the gears around him shatter — felt the first breath of freedom in half a century.
He smiled, the echo of his voice whispering, “Thank you.”
Then his soul dissolved into the turning of the clock.
Outside, the bells of Varnhelm rang once more.
Alaric’s name would fade from history, but his time had finally ended — and begun again
through another.
The clockmaker was gone, but the rhythm of his heart lived on in every tick that echoed through
the tower.
Author’s Note
This story tells the forgotten past of Alaric Voss, the man who created the cursed watch from
The Clockmaker’s Secret. I wrote it to explore how ambition can lead to tragedy, and how the
desire to control time can trap us instead of freeing us. In the end, The Clockmaker reminds us
that every second we have is a gift — not something to own, but to live.