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The Story:
Ericson was wandering about on a sunless autumn day. Almost all the leaves had fallen by now, and the ones that remained littered on the ground were brown with decay. A brisk wind whistled through the virtually bare trees and ruffled the edges of his plaid-patterned scarf. It was one of those days where winter was lurking in a corner, waiting for December.
He turned on Amherst Lane, which was in the old part of Maple Woods, the neighborhood his grandfather lived in. The neighborhood was given its name because of the wondrous maple trees that grew in every place there was soil. Each autumn, they greeted the residents with their crimson foliage, which usually lasted until the first frost. They stood, grand and magnificent, as a witness to all the families that have moved in, and all of those who had moved out. The people changed, and so did their houses, but somehow the neighborhood didn’t. Ericson knew this since his grandfather had told him; because each week he visited his grandfather to keep him company and help out a bit ever since Ericson’s grandmother died.
He stepped over jagged cement, which was pushed upwards by the growing trees’ roots. In fact, most of the cement on Amherst Lane was jagged. The trees were quietly colonizing the neighborhood.
Ericson ran up the cobblestone steps to his grandfather’s house. The painted brick of the house was graying just as much as its owner was, though it was peeling and chipping as well. He pressed a pink fingertip to the cold doorbell. A deep bell resounded within the stone walls of the house.
He heard the energetic shuffling of his grandfather’s footsteps, and the faint creaking of the floorboards as he approached the door. The bronze door-knob turned, and his grandfather’s wrinkled, but smiling face beamed at him from within the warm house.
“Hey grandpa,” Ericson said, as he stepped past him into the golden warmth.
“Hello Ericson. How’s my boy doing today?” his grandfather addressed him.
“Good. How’ve you been?”
“Good, good. All’s good. Don’t forget your scarf on the way out if you’re going to hang it up,” his grandfather warned.
“Don’t worry grandpa. I’m not that old,” Ericson said, hanging the scarf on the wooden coat hanger, along with his corduroy jacket.
“Oh, right, I almost forgot,” his grandfather said with a good-natured chuckle. His grandfather closed the door just after a gust of wind had invaded the warmth of his house.
“Mighty cold out there,” his grandfather observed, pretending to shiver.
“Yes it is. Almost in time for snow. I hope it snows before Christmas,” Ericson told his grandfather.
“Not with the rain we’ve been getting. Hasn’t rained for weeks. Now come join me by the fireplace for a cup of hot chocolate,” his grandfather said, ushering him into the great room.
It was very clean for an elderly person’s home. Usually, most people gave up and let things fall into a state of disrepair. But not Ericson’s grandpa. There wasn’t a smidge of dust to be found on the meticulously arranged furniture, or the several hanging clocks on the walls. There were several more clocks on the mantel, and a giant grandfather by one of the pillars. All of them were set to precisely the same time. Not a second too soon, nor a second too late.
The reason for this was that Ericson’s grandfather was a watch maker. He made the finest watches back in his day and some credible clocks as well. He had so many clocks, in every single room of the house, that at night, a quiet symphony of ticking gears was what you heard. Some chimed at the hour, while others rung at noon. And all were set to the exact same time.
Ericson knelt by the fireplace, gazing at the leaping flames as he felt his fingers begin to warm up. He heard the clinking and clanking of utensils in the kitchen as his grandfather prepared the hot chocolate. He could almost feel the warm mug in his hands, and smell the pleasantly milky aroma. Not to mention the taste, of course. Ericson loved cold weather, hot chocolate and the time his grandfather and him spent together.
“Chocolate’s ready! Be careful, it’s hot, so don’t burn your tongue,” His grandpa said, carrying two steaming mugs on a silver tray.
“Thank you grandpa!” Ericson exclaimed, gratefully.
With a grunt, his grandfather sunk into the wing-backed chair by the fireplace and propped up his legs on the foot rest.
Ericson ignored his grandfather’s advice and took a large slurp from the mug. It burned his tongue and stung as it went down his throat.
“Little whippersnapper. Told you it’d be hot,” his grandfather said jokingly, picking up his own mug. He blew into it, making the hot chocolate ripple, and then took a sip. He shook his head and decided that it indeed was too hot.
“You got burned too grandpa!” Ericson pointed out, laughing, with a moustache of hot chocolate.
“Well, age and knowledge can’t solve everything,” his grandfather said laughing.
“Look, we match,” Ericson observed, after catching his reflection in the polished silver tray.
“Yes, but your moustache is still brown and young. Mine has gone white through all these years,” his grandfather lamented.
“Hey, do you still remember everything grandpa?”
“What do you mean?”
“Like, when you were my age? Or the time you made your first watch? Or the time you had my dad?”
“Oh. Yes. There hasn’t been a single event in my life that I have forgotten. That is, a single event in my conscious life, of course. No one knows what happened to them when they were a baby. But they can find out,” he replied, folding his white, withered hands neatly on his lap.
“How?”
“Time of course. Everyone has things happen to them at a certain time. And if you know where to go, you can ask what happened,” he explained.
“Where do you go? Who do you ask?”
“Your memory, Ericson. The human mind is a very mystical being. You remember everything if you keep it sharp, and memories remain crisp and clear as if they happened the day before. You use your memory to learn all the things that you do, and remember all the people that you knew, even if they’re not there anymore,” his grandfather said.
“You mean like grandma?”
“Yes, like grandma,” his grandfather said with a sigh.
A silence settled over them like a soft blanket. Ericson remembered his grandma very well, as she had only died two years ago. He was eight then. He remembered the sickening, saddening feeling. He understood death then, but not as well as he did now. All he remembered were the tears. But he reckoned that if she had died now, he would be a lot sadder.
“Now, come on, drink your hot chocolate before it gets cold. No use drinking cool chocolate,” his grandfather said, changing the subject.
Ericson slurped his chocolate in a pensive mood, his eyes fixed on the dancing flames.
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Time is not the present, nor the past, nor the future. It is the only witness to all of our actions, our memories, our worst and our best. More importantly, you cannot bend the fabric of time, nor rewind it. Once a second passes, it has passed forever.
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Brief Synopsis: Ericson discovers the reason his grandfather has so many clocks in his house: they contain all the events that they have witnessed at a certain point in time. For example, if a murder happens in a place where a certain clock is, it can be revisited with the clock-maker's key. Most of the clocks his grandfather owns have been sold to other people, and his grandfather has managed to retrieve most of the clocks he has sold. However, there is a certain clock that witnessed a very important event, and Ericson is on the hunt for it.
