Chapter 22 – The Hour the Clocks Forgot
The bookstore was silent.
Not just quiet—silent.
The kind of silence that settles in your bones, heavier than snow.
Even the ticking of the old wall clock had stopped.
I noticed it the moment I walked in.
Leo wasn't behind the counter. The lamp was still on, casting soft gold light on the polished wood, but no one was there. The bell above the door had chimed when I entered, but the sound hadn't echoed. It had just... dropped.
Like the sound had fallen into a void.
I stood there, not sure whether to call out his name or just run.
Because something wasn't right.
And the store knew it, too.
The air felt thick, like it had swallowed too many secrets. The books were still in place. The lights still glowed.
But nothing moved.
Even the ivy along the ceiling had stilled.
I stepped forward.
Each step made the silence louder, somehow.
Then I saw it.
A single book—one I'd never seen before—was lying open on the floor, right where the poetry aisle ended.
The pages were fluttering, even though there was no breeze.
Drawn like a moth to a flame, I moved closer.
The moment I touched the book, the lights flickered.
Not just the store's lights.
Time flickered.
I saw Lena.
She was standing in the hallway of her childhood home, holding a small watch in her hand. Crying.
I saw Leo.
Alone in a room full of clocks, all their hands spinning backward.
I saw myself.
A younger me, in a hospital corridor, watching a heart monitor flatline.
Then—
I was back.
Kneeling beside the book, my hand still resting on the page.
Words had appeared:
"To move forward, you must return to the hour you buried."
The hour I buried?
I closed the book gently, hands shaking.
Leo had told me the store reveals things in its own time. That it listens.
But this—this was more than listening.
This was remembering for me.
The store had paused time.
And now it wanted me to revisit the moment I had begged to forget.
I stood, cradling the book in my arms.
The silence deepened, then cracked—just slightly—as a soft ticking resumed.
I turned toward the sound.
The clock above the entrance was moving again.
But not forward.
Back.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
Each second pulled me closer to something I hadn't faced in years.
I followed the sound.
It led me down a narrow corridor I hadn't noticed before.
At the end of it stood a grandfather clock, massive and ornate, its face cracked.
The hands were spinning counterclockwise.
And beside it—Leo.
His eyes were closed.
His hand rested on the glass.
I called out, but no sound escaped my throat.
He opened his eyes anyway.
"I thought you'd come," he said softly.
His voice was layered—like it belonged to several versions of himself, all speaking at once.
"What is this place?" I whispered.
"The moment between," he said. "Where time waits to see if you're ready."
I swallowed. "Ready for what?"
He looked down at the book in my hands. "To let go. Or to open the door and step through it."
My heart pounded. "What happens if I don't?"
"The store will keep the hour buried," Leo said. "But so will you."
I glanced at the grandfather clock. Its pendulum swung without sound.
The air smelled faintly of lilacs and ash.
A door appeared beside the clock.
No knob. No lock. Just wood, carved with a spiral of tiny clock faces.
I stepped toward it.
Then I stopped.
"What's behind it?" I asked.
Leo met my eyes.
"Your memory," he said. "The one that broke everything."
My legs nearly gave way.
Because I knew.
I knew what memory he meant.
The hospital. The machine. The last thing I said to my father before he died.
I'd buried it so deep that even dreams avoided it.
But the store hadn't.
I placed my hand on the door.
It was cold.
Then warm.
Then pulsing.
A soft click echoed.
And the door opened.
The light inside was soft.
I stepped in.
And I saw him.
My father.
Sitting on the hospital bed, pale and weak, but smiling.
I was there too—smaller, younger, angry.
I had said things I never got to take back.
I watched it all.
But then—
He turned.
Looked straight at me.
The real me.
"Don't carry it anymore," he said.
And just like that—
The guilt cracked.
Like a stone lifted off my chest.
Tears spilled.
I whispered, "I'm sorry."
He nodded.
Then faded.
The room faded too.
And I was back.
Leo caught me as I stumbled.
"It's over," I said.
"No," he whispered. "It's just beginning."
The clock chimed once.
Not backward. Not forward.
Just once.
And the store exhaled.
Time began again.
But something had shifted.
Inside me.
And maybe inside Leo, too.
Because as I looked at him, I saw something new.
Not just quiet.
Not just mystery.
Hope.
The kind that blooms in the cracks.
"Thank you," I whispered.
He shook his head.
"You remembered," he said. "That's all the store ever asks."
We stood there for a moment longer.
The air seemed lighter now, as if the heavy silence had lifted with the memories.
Outside, the first hints of dusk settled, painting the windows with soft amber.
The bookstore wasn't just a place of forgotten stories anymore.
It was a guardian of healing.
A keeper of second chances.
And as the clock ticked forward again—steady and sure—I knew this was just the beginning of what I needed to remember.
Leo's gaze softened as he stepped closer, his hand brushing mine gently. "Memories shape us," he said quietly. "But they don't have to define us."
I nodded, swallowing hard. The weight inside me was lighter now, but the path ahead still stretched uncertain and long.
The bookstore, with all its secrets and silences, was no longer just a refuge—it was a bridge.
A place where the past could finally meet the future without fear.
And for the first time in a long while, I felt ready.
Ready to step through whatever door came next.
Because some hours, no matter how deeply buried, are waiting for us to find the courage to face them.