The Clockmaker from Number Twelve

When it rained, Cisowa Street would become almost deserted, as if the rain itself was guarding its secrets. Maks, Lena and Kajetan simply couldn’t stay indoors during a storm. They were always drawn to places that were forbidden—or just plain strange. This time, their steps took them to number twelve: the old, moss-covered workshop of Mr Bogusz, the clockmaker. The workshop was a place of legend among local children: some said the clockmaker could stop time; others claimed he hid something inside that should never see the light of day. Grown-ups would give the workshop a wide berth. A pale light forever seeped from the upstairs window, no matter the time of day. “Come on!” whispered Lena, pushing at the heavy wooden door. Maks glanced at his watch—it was exactly thirteen minutes past three. Kajetan sighed and stepped inside. A scent of dust, old wood and something else—something faintly electric, like the tang in the air after a storm—hung in the air. Among shelves filled with clocks, pendulums and cogs, silence reigned, broken only by the ticking of a thousand hours. The workshop was bigger than it seemed from the outside. Every clock seemed to tick in its own rhythm, as if each one had its own story. Suddenly, from the back of the room, they heard a soft crunch. Lena lifted her torch, its beam sweeping across the wall. Maks spotted muddy footprints on the floor, leading to a door at the rear of the workshop—a door none of them had ever heard of before. When Kajetan reached out for the handle, they heard the loud, unnaturally amplified beating of a clock from within. The door slowly gave way under his touch, and a cold draught swept out. Inside, they saw something none of them could describe in words—in the centre of the dim little room stood a huge metal sphere, wrapped in a web of wires and cogs. All around it, clocks were running backwards. “What is that…?” Lena whispered, just as the sphere burst into blue light and the door behind them slammed shut with a bang.