I’m the clockkeeper. Every morning I climb the tower and quietly correct whatever drifted overnight between this town and the capital. On this planet, a day runs a hair’s breadth differently from town to town. Left alone, the trains and the clerks at the registry office slowly fall out of step with everyone else. So someone creeps up here every day and sets things right. For forty years, that someone has been me.
I’ll confess something. For a long time now, whenever I make the correction, I’ve nudged the hands one extra tick forward. The bell that ends my shift rings just a little early. That made me happy. That’s all it ever was.
One tick. Nobody could possibly notice that. Then again, it’s one tick a day. Over forty years — well. It adds up.
Last week, an official came up from the capital. He drew his own watch from a leather satchel with real ceremony. “Just a routine check. Hasn’t this town been inspected in decades?” He set it beside mine, and his face went pale. His watch. Mine. The hands were off by a good three hours.
“This is — your clock has run far too fast.”
Before he could finish, the baker’s wife snorted.
“What are you talking about, officer? My husband bakes bread by that clock every single morning.”
“The trains run on that bell,” the stationmaster added.
“The children’s school, the registry office, everything in this town runs by that clock. If anything’s off, it’s yours.”
The official peered into his satchel watch again, then looked up slowly at the tower, and cleared his throat.
”…It seems the capital’s clock was the one that had gone wrong.”
With that, he wound his watch back, set it exactly to match mine, and left.
I watched from the tower as the train carried him away.
Then, as I always do, I laid my hand on the clock hands.
One tick. My way.