The bell rings. It does not chime. It screams. A single, iron note that splits the air of the grey train station, shattering the calm of the commuters who stand frozen, their faces masks of wax. You feel it in your teeth. You feel it in the marrow of your spine. The station is not a station. It is a throat. And you are the lump that refuses to swallow.

You are seven. You are small. The world is vast and made of soot and steam. Your mother stands before you. She is tall. She is stiff. Her coat is the color of a bruise. She holds a ticket in one hand. In the other, she holds a box. The box is wood. It is old. It is wrapped in cloth. She does not look at you. She looks at the tracks. The tracks are black veins against the pale earth.

Take it, she says. Her voice is low. It is the sound of a stone dropped in a deep well.

You take it. The wood is cold. It bites your fingers.

The crowd moves. They push you. They push her. You are separated. The space between you widens. It is not a step. It is a chasm. You watch her. She does not move. She is a statue. The smoke from the engine engulfs her. She is gone. Not dead. Gone. Swallowed by the grey.

You run. You do not know where. You run into the dark. The dark is not empty. It is full. It is full of eyes.

The box is heavy. You drop it. You pick it up. You drop it. You pick it up. The rhythm of your breath is broken. Gasping. Wheezing. The air tastes of metal.

You find a door. It is red. It is small. It is out of place. It stands alone in the fog, like a tooth in a jaw of stone. You pull. It opens.

Inside, it is warm. It is bright. It is wrong.

The room is circular. The walls are mirrors. But the mirrors do not show you. They show the past. They show the future. They show things that have not happened yet. You see yourself as an old man. You see yourself as a child. You see yourself as a ghost.

You open the box.

Inside is a watch. It is brass. It is broken. The hands are missing. The face is cracked. It is dead. It has been dead for a hundred years.

But it ticks.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

The sound is loud. It is the loudest thing in the world. It is the sound of time eating itself.

A voice speaks. It comes from the mirrors. It is your father’s voice. But your father is not here. Your father is in the wall.

You are late, he says.

I am not late, you think. You are not here.

You are in the machine, he says. The machine is always turning. You are the gear. You are the spring. You are the oil.

You look at the watch. The crack in the glass widens. A thin line of light bleeds out. It is red. It is hot.

What do I do? you ask. The words leave your mouth. They feel like ash.

Choose, he says.

Choose what?

To break. To hold.

You do not understand. You are seven. You do not understand the weight of time. You do not understand the price of memory.

The room shakes. The mirrors shatter. Not into glass. Into light. The light is white. It is blinding. It is pain.

You feel your mother. She is not in the train. She is in the light. She is in the crack. She is in the red line.

She is holding the other half of the watch.

You realize it then. The box was not a gift. It was a key. The watch was not a relic. It was a bond. Your mother did not leave you. She entered the mechanism. She became the anchor. She held the time together so you could live.

You are the gear. She is the spring.

If you break the watch, you are free. But she is gone. Forever. The time collapses. The world ends.

If you hold the watch, you are bound. You are the clock. You will tick forever. She will be with you. In the silence between the seconds.

You look at the watch. The light is brighter. It burns your skin.

You think of the train. You think of the smoke. You think of her face. Stiff. Cold. A mask of wax.

You did not want this. You wanted to go home. You wanted to eat bread. You wanted to sleep in your bed.

You look at the mirror. The mirror shows you. Not the past. Not the future. The present. You are a child. You are afraid. You are alone.

But you are not alone. She is in the light. She is in the crack.

You close your hand around the watch. You squeeze. The brass is hot. It burns. You do not let go.

You choose to hold.

The light fades. The room dissolves. The mirrors are gone. The voice is gone.

You are in the train.

The train is moving. The wheels rumble. The passengers are asleep. Their faces are peaceful.

You look at your hand. The box is empty. The watch is gone.

But your hand is warm.

You look at the window. The landscape is dark. The trees are blurs of black.

You see a figure in the distance. It is small. It is still.

It is your mother.

She is standing by the track. She is watching the train.

You press your hand to the glass. Your fingers are cold.

She does not wave. She does not smile. She stands. She watches.

The train passes her. The wind rushes by. The sound is a roar.

You do not cry. You do not scream.

You sit down. You close your eyes.

You feel the tick.

It is inside you. In your chest. In your bones.

Tick. Tick. Tick.

It is steady. It is true.

You are the clock.

You are the time.

You are the keeper.

The years pass. They do not move. They flow. Like water. Like smoke.

You grow. You are tall. You are strong. You are quiet.

People look at you. They see a man. They see a stranger.

They do not see the child. They do not see the watch.

You work. You work in the factory. The machines are loud. The air is thick with dust.

You fix the gears. You oil the springs. You keep the time.

You are good at it. You are better than anyone.

The foreman likes you. He trusts you.

You do not speak much. You listen. You watch.

You feel her. Sometimes. In the silence. In the pause between the shifts.

It is a warmth. It is a presence.

It is not a voice. It is not a word.

It is a feeling.

It says: I am here.

It says: I am holding.

You do not ask for more. You do not ask for less.

You accept the weight. You accept the burden.

You are the gear. You are the spring.

You are the bond.

One day, the foreman comes to you. He is angry. He is loud.

The machine is broken, he says. The main gear. It is jammed.

We need a replacement, he says.

You look at the machine. It is a beast. It is iron. It is steam.

You know what to do.

You know how to fix it.

You do not tell him. You do not explain.

You go to the back of the room. You find a small hole. A crack.

You put your hand in.

It is warm.

You feel the tick.

You pull out a piece of brass. It is small. It is smooth.

It is a gear.

You put it in the machine.

The machine starts. It runs. It is smooth. It is fast.

The foreman is happy. He claps you on the back.

Good work, he says.

You smile. It is a small smile. It is a sad smile.

You know what you have done.

You have given a piece of yourself. A piece of the bond. A piece of her.

The machine runs. The time flows.

But the tick is quieter.

It is faint.

It is far away.

You look at your hand. It is empty.

You feel a loss. It is not a pain. It is a hollow.

It is the space where the light was.

You continue. You work. You live. You age.

The years are long. The years are short.

You are old. Your hair is white. Your back is bent.

You sit by the fire. The house is quiet.

You are alone.

You feel the tick.

It is very faint.

It is almost gone.

You close your eyes.

You see the train. You see the station. You see the smoke.

You see your mother.

She is still there. By the track.

She is watching.

You open your eyes.

The fire is low. The ash is grey.

You take a breath.

It is hard. It is deep.

You feel the last tick.

Tick.

It is inside you.

It is in your heart.

It is in your soul.

It is the last beat.

The last second.

The last moment.

You close your eyes.

You do not fear. You do not fight.

You accept.

You are the gear. You are the spring.

You are the time.

And the time is done.

The silence is loud.

The silence is kind.

You are free.

But you are not alone.

She is there.

In the silence.

In the dark.

In the light.

She is holding.

She is waiting.

And you are with her.

Forever.