Sy sat at his workbench. The air smelled like oil and old wood. He looked at his hands. They were thin and spotted, like a map of a place he no longer knew. He was the best clockmaker in the world, or so the papers on the wall said. But today, the names on the papers looked like gibberish. His own name felt like a suit that was three sizes too big. He had the fog again. It was a thick, white curtain that pulled across his brain. It stayed for hours. When it lifted, he usually found himself standing in the kitchen with no shoes on.
His vital need was simple. He needed to keep one single piece of himself. He just wanted to remember why he woke up in the morning.
A box sat in front of him. It was made of heavy brass. Someone had left it on his doorstep an hour ago. He didn’t remember who. Inside the box was a tiny room made of wood. It was a miniature crime scene. A small wooden man lay on the floor. His head was turned at a sharp angle. Red paint was splashed across the floor like a pool of blood. Sy felt a cold spike in his chest. His heart hammered against his ribs like a bird in a cage. He looked at the wooden man. The man was wearing a tiny version of Sy’s own green apron.
Did I do this? He thought. The thought was a physical weight. It felt like a stone in his stomach. He looked around his shop. He saw a hammer. Was there blood on it? No, just dust. But his memory was a broken gear. It slipped and spun. He could have killed someone and forgotten it before the body was even cold.
The box had a timer on the side. It was ticking. The sound was loud, like a heart. He knew this mechanism. He had built it. If he didn’t solve the puzzle before the timer hit zero, the box would lock forever. And his brain was already starting to dim. The fog was coming back from the edges of his vision. He had maybe ten minutes of light left. He had to know the truth. He had to know if he was a monster.
He grabbed a pair of tweezers. His fingers shook. This is it, he thought. This is the end of me. He found a hidden screw in the corner of the tiny wooden room. He turned it. A drawer popped open. Inside was a tiny brass key. He put the key into a hole in the ceiling of the miniature room.
Click.
A wall fell away. Behind the wall was another figure. It was a woman. She was holding a knife. Sy felt his eyes sting. The woman looked like Mona. He remembered that name. Mona was the woman in the photos by his bed. The woman he loved. Had she killed someone? Or had he killed her? He felt a sob catch in his throat. It felt like his soul was being rubbed with sandpaper.
“Think, Sy. Think,” he hissed.
He moved the tiny woman. Her arms were on a pivot. He saw a series of gears behind her back. They were jammed with a small gold ring. He reached in with his pliers. His vision was blurring. The white fog was pressing in. He felt his breath coming in short, jagged gasps. He pulled the ring out.
The gears began to hum. It was a beautiful, sweet sound. It sounded like a lullaby. The tiny woman didn’t move toward the dead man with the knife. Instead, the “knife” snapped back into her hand. It wasn’t a knife at all. It was a tiny candle.
The man on the floor didn’t stay dead. A spring under the floorboards pushed him up. He wasn’t bleeding. The red paint wasn’t blood. As the gears turned, the man moved to one knee. He wasn’t dying. He was proposing.
Sy froze. He watched the tiny wooden man hold out his hand. The tiny woman took it. A hidden music box inside the brass walls began to play. It was a song about a summer day by a lake.
The fog in Sy’s head didn’t go away, but it turned from a cold wall into a soft blanket. He looked at the gold ring in his pliers. He remembered now. This wasn’t a crime scene. This was a gift he had started building five years ago. He had built it to remind himself of the best day of his life. He had built it because he knew he would forget. He wasn’t a killer. He was a man who had been very, very loved.
He felt a sudden heat in his face. It was a smile. It was the first time he had smiled in weeks. It felt like the sun coming out after a long winter. He looked at the tiny wooden couple dancing in their brass box. He didn’t know what would happen tomorrow. He didn’t know if he would remember his own name when he woke up.
But right now, he felt light. He felt like he was floating. He reached out and touched the tiny wooden man’s head.
“I remember,” he whispered.
The timer hit zero. The box didn’t lock. It stayed open, the music playing softly into the quiet shop. Sy leaned back in his chair. His heart was steady now. He wasn’t scared of the dark anymore. He was just a man in a shop, listening to a song he loved, surrounded by the beautiful things he had made. He closed his eyes and let the music wash over him. He was happy. For this moment, the gears were all in the right place.