The sign painted on the window read Huygens Clock Repair & Horology.  The paint was cracked and faded.  The script looked old and stylized like something from another time.  The window was the front of a small shop, which was set amongst several other which looked equally antique.  In fact, if someone were to look at the homely collection of shops from a distance, they might look washed out as though in a photograph from many years ago.

      Inside this specific shop sat a man not quite so untouched by time; the owner and proprietor of the shop, George Huygens.  He was a man in his seventies who was balding with tufts of grey hair on the sides of his head.  He sat at a desk with a magnifying eyeglass with which he was peering into the inner workings of a disemboweled clock.  He heard the ringing of the bell on the door signaling that someone had come into the store.  His portly frame made the stool he was sitting on creak as he got up.  He moved from the back room into the front of the store.  The walls were covered with clocks of every variety all rhythmically ticking away.  There were so many clocks that most people would find the noise quite loud, even bothersome, but George found the noise soothing.  Time itself ticked away inside his shop flowing outside where it kept the earth rotating.

      He saw a young man idly adjusting on the clocks on the wall.  This was unacceptable.

      “Hey, don’t touch that,” said George sharply, pointing to a hand written sign saying Please Do Not Touch.

      “Oh sorry,” said the man.  “It was off.”

      “Impossible” said George, sounding insulted. 

      “Not according to my watch,” said the man holding up a fancy digital wristwatch.

      “Humph, who knows what damage you could have done,” George said, snatching the clock from the wall and taking it to the back room.  He would have to make sure its inner workings had not been disturbed by the man’s interference. 

      When he returned the young man said, “What can you tell me about this?  Is it valuable?” 

      He held up a pocket watch and shook it up and down slightly, producing an agonizing rattling sound.  George flinched.

      “What have you done to it?”

      “Oh, well it sounds broken.  I was just wondering if I could get anything for it.”

      “I’ll give fifty dollars for it,” said George flatly.

      “That much? Sure,” said the man. 

George gave him the money and took the watch into the back room.  He set it down on the table.  That would be for another day and from sickening sound of the loose parts inside, the clock was in desperate need of repair.  He sighed and went back to work on the other clock.  One of his clocks off, the idea was ridiculous; all his clocks were perfect.  George shook his head and wished that people were more like clocks; he could adjust clocks.  If a clock was not right he could fix it.  If a clock was not keeping time he could open it up and meticulously adjust it so that it worked perfectly.

                                    * * *

      A car door slammed and the bell on the door made a dull chime.  George scowled slightly, and stood up from his workbench, moving from the back room through a threadbare curtain into front of the store.  He saw a glossy black sports car parked outside his shop and a women looking at him expectantly.  The gleam of the car against the dull storefront and the golden particles of dust floating around the room which threatened to stick to the woman’s crisp dark business suit made both the woman and the car look out of place.

      “Yes?” said George.

      “Oh, well, I was wondering if you can fix this,” she said, holding up an expensive looking wristwatch.

      “Hmmm,” said George, taking the watch from her.  He held it up to his ear and frowned.  “I don’t hear anything.”

      “I thought only mechanical watches made noise,” she said. 

George’s frown deepened.  “There’s nothing I can do to fix this,” he said handing her the watch.

      “Are you sure?  It’s just, that this is my husband’s watch and it was very expensive.”

      “I’m a craftsman.  Do you have any idea how much work and skill I put into these?” said George turning slightly red in the face.  He waved his hand towards the many clocks all the walls of his shop.  “But, that,” he said, pointing at the wristwatch in her hand, “No one’s sweat went into that.”

      “Alright, fine I guess I’ll go somewhere else,” said the woman. 

      As she was leaving another person came into the shop, it was the man from several days ago who had sold a watch to George.

      “I’d like that watch I sold you back,” he said to George. 

      “I can’t do that,” replied George, “I haven’t fixed it yet.”

      “I don’t care if it works or not, I just want it back,” said the man.

      “You didn’t seem to care about it before, why do you want it so much now?”

      “Well…I,” the man started.

      “I know it’s an antique railroad watch if that’s why you want it,” said George. 

      “Well then you know how valuable it is.”

      “Yes, I do.”

      “Why didn’t you tell me that yesterday?” replied the man, now visibly angry.

      “Because… you can’t appreciate this watch,” puffed George. “You can’t understand the history, the workmanship behind it.  Standard railroad watches kept excellent time, they had to so that the trains would always run on time, but to you it’s merely something to be sold for a profit.” 

      The man looked somewhat stunned by the outburst.  He then looked angrily at George and stormed out of the shop.

      George let out a long sigh, part exasperation and part relief.  Was it so hard for people to appreciate his craft? Sometimes he wondered why he even kept the shop open.  George leaned against the front counter and looked around at the myriad of clocks on the walls.  He found himself wondering again why people couldn’t be more like clocks, the things he could manipulate so expertly, the things that he was so finely attuned to.

      Then, a strange idea came across a George’s mind.  At first it was merely a passing thought.  It seemed crazy at first, but the more he thought about it, the more he liked it.  It would be his masterwork; he would have to close the shop for he would devote all his time to it.  George smiled in anticipation; he couldn’t wait to begin.

                              * * *

      George awoke in the small apartment that was above his shop.   It was early, much earlier than when he usually got up.  He looked around the room. It was sparsely decorated and there was little furniture.  The yellowing wallpaper was starting to peel away from the walls and the curtains were old and tattered.   George had never thought of the apartment as his home.  His shop was where he felt most at home, surrounded by that which he was so fascinated with, the clocks and time.  George got up and brewed himself a pot of coffee and went down to his shop.  He unlocked the door and went inside but did not flip the paper sign to “open.”  He wanted to get straight to work without any of the interruptions from costumers that he had to endure.  George thought about how he would begin his major project.  He was excited and wanted to get started at once.  He decided to start with a large cuckoo clock that was sitting on one of the workbenches in the backroom of his shop.  George had removed most of the innards of the clock and all that was left was the chalet-shaped case.  This would form the main body of his creation, the body of his son.  George’s ultimate masterpiece would be a being born of his beloved clocks.  Something that would be powered by time and like the other clocks in his shop would last forever if treated with proper care.  Something immortal.

      George worked tirelessly on his creation, for days he ate and slept little.  He had to use most of his spare parts but slowly his dream was realized.  The empty cuckoo clock became the torso of his creation, which housed most of the clockwork.  George bent over it with an eyeglass and instruments for adjusting the myriad of gears and springs which he had begun fitting into it.  Now came the moment when he would turn on the machine.  George stood over it as it lay on a table, like a surgeon finishing an operation. Naturally, it had to be wound and it looked like an enormous windup toy.  It had sightless eyes made of clear glass watch faces.  It’s appendages were connected with gears which protruded from the shoulder blade and elbows. George savored the moment as he laid his hands on the latch to wind the automaton.  He smiled at his own craftsmanship, and then turned the latch several times.  The thing vibrated slightly on the table, then whirring and clicking noises came from within it.  Then there was a much louder and more regular ticking from inside.

      “We have a heart beat!” said George out loud, rubbing his hands together in anticipation.   Yet, there was no movement from the thing.  The noise continued for a moment then stopped.  George looked down at it, puzzled, he was sure that it would work.  He wound it again which produced the same results.  He opened up the back of it and made some adjustments.  He bent down and peered into its clockwork innards, grabbing some of his tools.  He stood up and prepared to wind it again.  This time it was perfect, everything was perfect and it would work.  He gave it a wind again.  As before, the thing began whirring and ticking and then stopped.  George could feel himself beginning to become frustrated.  How could this be happening?  It was inconceivable that he had done something wrong. He was an expert; his clocks kept perfect time.  So why couldn’t this clockwork creature he had made come perfectly to life.

      George worked for hours his mind fixed on the inner workings of the machine.  He cleaned and lubricated the gears.  He made sure every single mechanism was working order, rechecking each individual part and making adjustments.  Once again, he gave the thing a wind, not knowing what he would do if it didn’t work.  Again, as before, it started ticking and then there was the clicking of gears together as it raised it’s arm.  George’s eyes widened.  It was finally working.  There was more clicking as it moved its head back and forth.  Its movements were robotic, rigid and uniform like the movements of a clock’s arms.   George looked on, strangely perplexed.  He had expected to feel proud and triumphant at the thing’s completion but all he felt was empty.  Although he knew that it was just a collection of clockwork, he was a master clock smith, he had expected something more than an oversized windup toy.  George then realized that perhaps the flaw was not in the machine but in himself.  He grabbed his coat and left the machine to wind itself down.  He was off to the library to do some research.  He had heard about atomic clocks, the kind of technology that he usually avoided but it was said that they kept time better than any other clock, so perhaps it was worth looking into.