The Quiet Life of Master Albrecht
Master Albrecht was a clockmaker. His workshop was his world.
He loved gears and springs. The steady tick-tock of his creations brought him peace.
Albrecht lived for precision. Every cog had its place. Every second counted.
His days were quiet, his nights calm. He rarely worried. He rarely wondered.
His reputation was built on reliability. His clocks never failed.
He kept to himself. No idle chatter. No grand ideas. Just clocks.
A Persistent Nudge
One Tuesday, his friend Klaus stopped by. Klaus was a trader, full of news and gossip.
Albrecht barely looked up from his workbench. “Good day, Klaus.”
Klaus leaned against a shelf, knocking a small spring to the floor. “Heard anything interesting, Albrecht?”
Albrecht grumbled, picking up the spring. “Only the sound of gears turning correctly.”
Klaus chuckled. “Speaking of gears… I was just by the Rathaus. The big clock, you know?”
Albrecht nodded, wiping oil from his hands. He had installed that clock himself, years ago.
“Well,” Klaus continued, a slight pause, “I thought I heard it strike thirteen.”
Albrecht scoffed. “Impossible. It’s a two-handed clock. Strikes only up to twelve.”
“Yes, yes, I know,” Klaus said, waving a hand. “But just for a moment, it sounded… off. Like an extra chime.”
Albrecht frowned. “You misheard. The mechanism is perfect.”
“Perhaps,” Klaus said, shrugging. “Just a thought. Maybe a tiny bit of grit, or a spring weakening.”
He offered Albrecht a piece of dried sausage, which Albrecht declined.
Klaus soon left, off to spread more news.
Albrecht returned to his work. But the quiet hum of his workshop felt different.
“Thirteen strikes,” he muttered. “Nonsense.”
The Obsession Grows
That night, Albrecht couldn’t sleep. He kept hearing an imaginary “thirteenth” chime.
He got out of bed. He paced. He tried to tell himself it was foolish.
But the thought clung to him. Like a tiny, irritating itch behind his ear.
The next morning, he checked his own workshop clock. Perfect.
He checked the kitchen clock. Perfect.
He took his usual route to market. He found himself walking past the Rathaus clock tower.
He stopped. He stared up. The hands moved steadily. The chimes sounded. Twelve o’clock. Perfect.
“See?” he told himself. “Klaus was imagining things.”
But the “what if” lingered. What if it happened only sometimes? What if it was a subtle flaw?
He started visiting the square three, four times a day. He’d pause, pretending to admire the fountain.