In an abandoned lighthouse on the coast of Great Point in Nantucket, Massachusetts, the morning sun climbed over the water as if it had somewhere important to be.
Kairi Quinn watched it from the passenger seat of her mom’s rental car, knees pulled up, hoodie sleeves swallowed over her hands. The ocean glittered like a thousand watches ticking at once.
“Okay,” her mom said, squinting at the dirt path. “Great Point Lighthouse. We’ve got… thirty minutes. Then we have to head back.”
Thirty minutes.
Kairi felt the number land on her like a weight. At age 11, thirty minutes was the kind of time that vanished. It slipped through fingers. It disappeared in the space between we’ll do it later and we should’ve done it sooner.
“Can we just… stay longer?” Kairi asked.
Her mom’s phone chimed—an email, a calendar reminder, something that made her thumb move before she even answered.
“We’ll see,” her mom said, which always meant no.
Kairi stared out the window as the lighthouse rose ahead—tall, weathered, lonely. It looked like something time had forgotten to erase. That wasn’t supposed to be comforting. But it was.
Her mom parked near a cluster of scrubby grass and a few scattered beach roses. A small sign pointed toward the lighthouse. Another sign, hand-painted and slightly crooked, read:
THE O’CLOCK SHOP: Clocks Repaired & Time Reclaimed
Kairi blinked.
“Weird,” she murmured.
“Probably just a tourist thing,” her mom said, already gathering her bag. “Come on.”
The closer they walked, the more Kairi heard it: ticking. Not one clock—many. Dozens. Hundreds. A whole crowd of tiny beats, like a roomful of nervous hearts. Kairi’s own heart joined in.
They rounded the lighthouse base, and there it was—an open doorway in a small building attached to the tower. A bell over the door jingled when they stepped inside.
And the sound hit Kairi like a wave.
Tick-tock. Tick-tick-tock. Tick. Tock. Tick-tock-tick-tock—
It was dizzying. The shop was filled with little clocks, big clocks, grandfather clocks, wrist watches, and pocket watches. Every shelf, every wall, every corner held something with hands, gears, pendulums, or faces that stared straight out as if they could see right through her.
Kairi swallowed.
An unknown radio station played softly in the background—she recognized the chorus of a song about time, and then another. Every song seemed to have time in the title or the lyrics. Even the commercials sounded like they were trying to sell her minutes.
Behind a counter stood an elderly bearded man in overalls. He had hair as white as sea foam and eyes that looked bright and sharp, like they’d been polished. He was opening the shop windows to a bright July morning, letting in the salty air.
He turned, and his smile arrived before his words did.
“I can fix anything that ticks,” the man quipped. “Bring me your clocks and your watches, even if they run on batteries. Time flies! I’ll help you catch it.”
Kairi’s mom laughed politely. Kairi didn’t.
Because on the wall behind him hung a painting—A Dance to the Music of Time by Nicolas Poussin—and next to it, hung like it belonged there, was a huge scythe. A large hand tool. The kind Kairi had only seen in old pictures of harvest fields, and darker things. On the counter sat a bronze and silver hourglass. It looked heavy, important—like it shouldn’t be touched by regular hands.
The man noticed Kairi looking. He leaned closer.
“Once in a while, the station plays songs in cut time,” he said with a wink. “Not common time at all. But you knew that already. It’s all about time!”
Kairi opened her mouth, then shut it.
Her mom’s polite smile tightened. “Is this a museum? Or a shop?”
“A shop,” the old man said. “The O’Clock Shop.” He glanced at Kairi again. “Some people call me Father Time. But my name is Eliad. What’s your name?”
“Kairi,” she answered.
He hummed thoughtfully. “Kairi. Do you know the difference between Chronos and Kairos?”
Her breath caught.
“Chronological time keeps everything in order,” he said gently. “But there is another kind of time—a time for action. When one of my clocks sounds an alarm, that’s the moment to aim and release. Kairos is that kind of moment.”
Kairi felt her dad’s voice echo somewhere deep inside her. A time for action. A right time.
She stepped farther into the shop. A cuckoo clock waited, tense. An upright piano stood in the corner, a metronome ticking steadily atop it. It would not deviate a beat.
“In most of my clocks,” Eliad said, watching her, “I hide instructions in a back secret door, where customers can find the information when they are ready to confront the fleeting time in their lives.”
“Let me tell you a little secret,” he whispered. “If you turn the hands seven times backward and then seven times forward, you will get seven more hours in your day.”
“What are you talking about?” someone nearby questioned.
The bell over the door jingled again. A woman stepped inside as if she belonged to a different layer of the world. Flowers intertwined with her golden hair. Petals clung to the hem of her silk dress.
“Eliad,” she called warmly.
“Mother Nature,” he replied, clearly in love. “You are so beautiful, Autumn!”
“I long for the fullness of time!” she called.
She walked through the shop with a bowl of blueberries and tourists in tow.
“What a time and season!” she said. “Do you have advice for such a time as this?”
Depending on which clocks the customers touched, Father Time showed them how to turn back the Hours, turn forward the Hours, make the Hours stand still, and even extend the Hours.
“A patient heart beats a lot stronger,” he joked. “Did you know that you have a ticker, just like a clock? A day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.”
“It just takes a little time,” Mother Nature said softly. “Is there any place in your lives that you need to sow seeds?”
The visitors stood uncertain. One dainty customer pressed the keys on the upright piano, keeping in step with the metronome.
“If I plant seeds today, sometimes I don’t reap a harvest for years,” Autumn said. “This is a trustworthy saying: ‘God has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.’”
A little girl ran to the largest grandfather clock and tried to squeeze herself inside.
“I want to be beautiful!” she said.
“This clock is centuries old! It’s priceless and not for sale. The ancient Greeks built it,” Father Time scolded. “You can’t live in a clock anyhow! Make the most of every opportunity because the days are evil. Number your days!”
“Have you heard from that unscrupulous beast called the Hours?” Mother Nature asked.
“He leaves me threatening notes time after time,” Father Time answered. “The Hours is ruthless and steals so much from so many people, but not if I have anything to say about it.”
A gust of wind rushed through The O’Clock Shop, shaking the walls. Several alarms went off at once, including the enchanted grandfather clock.
Father Time looked out the window. Kairi followed his gaze.
In the high grass stood the Hours, swinging a scythe. Kairi felt shock. She noticed that the hook on the wall where the scythe had hung a few moments ago was empty.
She and her mother stood breathless.
“There’s a man out there with a blade!” her mother whispered, backing toward the door.
“How did you steal my sickle again?” Father Time yelled. “Give it back now!”
The skeleton body of the Hours was robed in a black-hooded cape. A pale horse stood beside him. A crow hovered over his shoulder. A snake with a tail in its mouth crept at his feet.
“Nothing lasts forever! I have come for your souls! You cannot escape me! Time devours all things!” the Hours yelled.
Then, for a heartbeat, Kairi saw them—large, daunting wings on the shoulders of Father Time. When she blinked, they were gone. She wondered if anyone would believe her.
Father Time strode to the ancient grandfather clock and stopped the mortal hands of time. The ticking faltered into silence.
Kairi felt the silence before she understood it.
It wasn’t just the clocks that had stopped.
Something inside her chest seemed to hesitate, like her own heart was unsure whether it was allowed to keep going. The air thickened, pressing against her ears. Even the waves outside looked frozen in mid-crest.
The Hours turned his hollow gaze toward her.
Not toward Father Time.
Toward her.
Cold rushed through Kairi’s arms, down to her fingertips. For a terrible second, she couldn’t remember the sound of her father’s voice. It slipped just out of reach, like a word on the tip of her tongue.
No.
She squeezed her eyes shut.
She pictured the hospital room. The steady beeping. Her father’s hand wrapped around hers. The way he had whispered her name—Kairi—as if it meant something strong and certain.
A time for action.
“You don’t get that,” she breathed, though she wasn’t sure if she was speaking to the Hours or to the dark space inside her fear.
She pressed her palm against the glass of the grandfather clock.
“I won’t give it to you,” she said.
For a heartbeat, the silence trembled.
“Now be gone!” Father Time commanded.
The Hours vanished. The scythe reappeared on the wall.
Slowly, Father Time allowed the hands to begin once more.
“Guard yourself from the Hours,” Father Time said, his voice steady now. “He’s gone for the moment. But he returns when you least expect it. Don’t give him what isn’t his.”
Kairi’s throat tightened. “Can you fix it… when time steals someone?” she said.
Her voice felt smaller than she meant it to. She kept her eyes on the floorboards because if she looked at him, she might cry in front of everyone.
She was thinking of the hospital room with its pale walls and the steady machines that ticked and beeped like impatient clocks. She was thinking of the way her father’s hand had grown lighter in hers, as if time were slowly loosening its grip.
There had been so many things she meant to say. So many questions she thought there would be time for later.
Later never came.
The Hours had taken that, too.
Father Time’s eyes softened.
“Some things cannot be fixed by turning hands,” he said gently. “But some things can be redeemed. Chronos will keep marching. But Kairos is the moment you choose what to do with what you’ve been given.”
The waves outside moved in steady rhythm, ebb and flow like a clock. The lighthouse stood tall against the sky.
“And you,” Father Time said quietly, “have more time than you think—if you don’t give it away to the Hours.”
Kairi nodded, feeling something small and stubborn take root inside her.
“What do I do?” she asked.
“First,” he said, “you don’t pretend you didn’t see what you saw. Second, you number your days—not to fear them, but to fill them. And third… when the right time comes, you act.”
Kairi looked back at the ancient grandfather clock. The hands were moving again, steady and certain, as if nothing extraordinary had happened at all.
But she knew better.
Thirty minutes had passed. She was sure of it. And yet the time did not feel stolen. It felt full—like something had been planted instead of taken.
The ticking no longer sounded frantic. It sounded patient.
She pressed her fingers lightly to her wrist and felt her pulse—strong, steady, present.
The Hours might come again. Father Time had said so. But next time, she would not stand still.
Next time, she would act.
“Our thirty minutes is up,” Kairi’s mother said. “Honey, we have to go before anything else strange happens around here.
“Yes, Mom,” Kairi said. “It’s time to leave.”
Tick.
Tock.
Copyright 2023 Jennifer Waters
Pen Jen's Inkwell Podcast version:
In an abandoned lighthouse on the coast of Great Point in Nantucket, Massachusetts, an elderly bearded man in overalls opened the windows to a bright July morning.
Over time, he had converted the tower and its nearby buildings into The O’Clock Shop, where he made and repaired clocks.
“I can fix anything that ticks,” the man who many people called Father Time quipped. “Bring me your clocks and your watches, even if they run on batteries. Time flies! I’ll help you catch it.”
His shop was filled with little clocks, big clocks, grandfather clocks, wrist watches, and pocket watches. Each of them tick-tocked at once, causing most customers to feel dizzy with the noise, especially when he turned up an unknown radio station that only played songs about time.
“The channel comes in since I’m near the coast,” he explained to visitors, glancing at his painting “A Dance to the Music of Time” by Nicolas Poussin. “Once in a while, the station plays songs in cut time with two half-note beats per measure,” he continued. “As if anyone was counting, cut time is not at all common time, but you knew that already. It’s all about time!”
On his wall hung a huge scythe, a large hand tool, in case he needed to cut back the beach grass, and a bronze and silver hourglass sat next to the cash register that he flipped each New Year. Customers often swore that they saw wings on his back, such as John Gray, the neighboring fisherman, who looked at Father Time, convinced he saw large, daunting wings on his shoulders. When Mr. Gray looked again, the wings were gone, as if they were never there in the first place.
“Did you see the wings this time?” Mr. Gray would ask his wife Joan when they visited the shop.
“No, honey, I didn’t see the wings,” Joan chuckled, admiring the clocks. “Maybe next time.”
As the beach waves crashed against the shore, they created an ebb and flow rhythm almost like a clock. With each splash of water, a new timepiece came alive as the clocksmith tinkered away.
“What a brilliant moon hangs over the ocean tonight,” Father Time pronounced in awe, standing atop his lighthouse after a full day’s work. He lit the tower for sailors that journeyed across the ocean in sea time. “I’m a timekeeper for the ages. The pendulum swings wide! I wonder who will come into the shop tomorrow, and how I’ll be able to help with the evil Hours.”
“Eliad, maybe I’ll stop by with some friends,” called Mother Nature from the moonlit beach to Father Time. She lived up the coast in a small cottage overgrown with flowers, fruit trees, and stalk vegetables. Flowers intertwined with the golden locks of her hair, as if the daises and roses grew from her own scalp. The starlight shone on her countenance that radiated like a vibrant angel in a silk dress.
“See you in the morning, Autumn!” Father Time exclaimed, clearly in love with his elegant neighbor. “I’d really enjoy some more of your blueberries from the bushes in your back garden.”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Mother Nature replied, leaving a trail of flower petals in the shadowy sand. “I long for the fullness of time!” she called.
Bright and early, Mother Nature knocked on Father Time’s shop door with a large bowl of blueberries and a group of tourists who she’d met on her morning walk, interested in his magical clocks.
“What a time and season!” Miss Nature chuckled. “Do you have advice for such a time as this?” she asked.
Depending on which clocks the customers bought, Father Time showed his patrons how to turn back the Hours, turn forward the Hours, make the Hours stand still, and even extend the Hours.
“Let me tell you a little secret,” Father Time whispered, when he was sure he could trust the customer. “If you turn the hands seven times backward and then seven times forward, you will get seven more hours in your day. I thought I’d let you know in case you need some more time.”
“What are you talking about?” most customers questioned, confused at Father Time’s advice. The idea of what he was saying could happen was beyond their ability to believe.
“The real question though is if you’re in need of Chronos or Kairos,” Father Time clarified. “Do you know the difference? Chronological or sequential time is different than a time for action. If an alarm goes off on one of my clocks, it’s time to hit the target like an archer. Kairos is pivotal.”
In most of his clocks, Father Time hid instructions in a back secret door, where customers could find the information when they were ready to confront the fleeting time in their lives.
“Did you know that you have a ticker, just like a clock?” Father Time joked to Mother Nature, scooping handfuls of the blueberries into his mouth. “A patient heart beats a lot stronger. A day is like a thousand years, and a thousand years are like a day.”
“It just takes a little time,” Mother Nature explained, fixated on a swinging pendulum.
“Is there any place in your lives that you need to sow seeds?” Autumn asked the strangers that she invited into the shop that morning.
Unsure of what to say, the visitors shrugged their shoulders in silence.
One dainty customer quietly pressed the keys on an upright piano in the corner, keeping in step with its metronome that would not deviate a beat.
“If I plant seeds today, sometimes I don’t reap a harvest for years,” Autumn announced. “This is a trustworthy saying: ‘God has made everything beautiful in its time. He has also set eternity in the human heart; yet no one can fathom what God has done from beginning to end.”
“I want to be beautiful!” the little girl in the tourist group cheered, running to the largest grandfather clock at the front of the shop, opening its main door, and trying to squeeze herself into the clock body. The clock was decorated with gold trim and carvings. It had a special glow about it as though it was other-worldly.
“This clock is centuries old! It’s priceless and not for sale. The ancient Greeks built it,” Father Time scolded, grabbing her and plopping her on the ground. “You can’t live in a clock anyhow! Make the most of every opportunity because the days are evil. Number your days!”
“Have you heard from that unscrupulous beast called the Hours?” Mother Nature inquired, shinning up the glass door where the little girl smudged it.
“He leaves me threatening notes time after time,” Father Time answered. “I throw them out and keep selling my clocks. No one deserves to have even a minute stolen from them. The Hours is ruthless and steals so much from so many people, but not if I have anything to say about it.”
“The Hours is completely cuckoo,” Mother Nature sighed, listening to the cuckoo clock sound at thirty minutes past ten.
“My vegetable garden was torn to shreds, and I spent so much time tending to it. I know it was the Hours, but the only thing I can do is try to redeem the time and turn the hands back on one of your clocks. Other people have many worse things that need redemption, but it’s still upsetting. I was looking forward to hearty vegetable soups.”
A large gust of wind rushed through The O’Clock Shop, shaking the machines on the walls. Several alarms went off at once, including the enchanted grandfather clock.
As Father Time looked out the window, he saw the Hours standing in the high grass, swinging his scythe.
“How did you steal my sickle again?” Father Time yelled at him out the window. He looked at his wall to see the empty space where it had been hanging. “Give it back now!”
“The Hours must have slipped through the shop when we weren’t looking,” Mother Nature cried, looking at the trembling customers. “Do his tricks ever end?”
The skeleton body of the Hours was robed in a black-hooded cape. A pale horse stood beside him, neighing and screeching. A crow hovered over his shoulder. A snake with a tail in its mouth creeped at his feet.
“A crazy man is outside your shop, swinging a large knife!” yelled neighbor John Gray, running up Father Time’s front walkway, out of breath, and into The O’Clock Shop. “What is going on around here?”
“Maybe we should just call the police, honey!” his wife, Joan, cried, standing in shock in the shop, finally seeing the wings on the back of the clockmaker. “He does have wings!” she gasped.
“Nothing lasts forever! I have come for your souls!” The Hours screamed, and his voice echoed up and down the coast. “You cannot escape me! Time devours all things!”
“Speak of the Hours,” Father Time warned, walking over to his priceless grandfather clock, and stopping the mortal hands of time. “Now be gone!” he called to the Hours.
With that, the Hours disappeared, nowhere to be found, and Father Time’s scythe reappeared on his wall. Then, the clockmaker allowed the hands of time on his ancient grandfather clock to begin once more.
“Guard yourself everyone from the Hours! Don’t let him steal from you,” Father Time instructed. “He’s gone for now, but he comes back when you least expect it. You never know what he might do! You don’t owe him anything. There is a time for everything! I’ll put my time signature on that for life. Life and life to the full!”
Copyright 2023 Jennifer Waters
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