The clock that waited

I kept a little clock

on the far side of my shelf—

the kind that ticks politely

and never calls attention

to itself.

It came with a tiny key

meant to wind its quiet heart,

but the person who owned it

never bothered

to start.

They always said they’d fix it

“when things finally calm down,”

as if time waits politely

for anyone

in town.

So the clock sat still

in a dignified freeze—

like a butler abandoned

at a long-canceled

tea.

It practiced keeping rhythm

even though it couldn’t move,

trying to prove

(again and again)

that it had something

to prove.

It polished its own brass face

with a stubborn, lonely shine,

murmuring to the silence,

“One day… someone

will call me

mine.”

But days slipped by

in the way days do—

quiet, careless,

unaware

they’re being cruel.

Dust gathered like gossip

around its frozen grin,

and the clock thought,

“Strange…

I’m here,

but I’m not

let in.”

Then one soft morning,

a visitor strolling through

noticed how the clock

still gleamed

like something

true.

They lifted it gently—

the care was almost art—

and wound the little key

straight into

its start.

The gears woke gasping

like someone who forgot

how good it feels

to matter

in a place

you’re not.

And time began again—

not loudly,

not bold—

just a steady, grateful heartbeat

in a room

that wasn’t cold.

Back on the old shelf,

its absence made a hush—

not dramatic,

just a pause

that made the air

go still

and blush.

The former owner blinked at it,

confused by the new space,

feeling something hollow

slip across

their face.

They muttered,

“Odd…

I didn’t realize

you just needed

to be wound.”

But clocks remember touch—

the kind that’s

finally

found.

And regret?

It ticks quietly

in the corners

of the mind—

the sound of chances wasted

by someone

who didn’t

find

the time