The Clockmaker’s Pocket
An old clockmaker named Thomas died and left his grandniece a silver pocket watch. It had no hands, just a small mirror where the face should be. When Clara looked into it, she did not see her own eyes. Instead, she saw her grandmother’s kitchen from forty years ago, bright with morning sun. She smelled toast and heard a radio playing a song from the past. When she closed the lid, a single, perfectly dry rose petal fell out of the casing into her hand.
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