Mick was a man who lived by the tick. He sat in a shop that smelled like old oil and dry wood. The walls were covered in clocks. They all hummed and clicked like a thousand tiny hearts beating at once. Mick liked that. Clocks never forgot what time it was. Clocks didn’t have brains that turned to soft mud.
Mick’s own brain was the problem. It was like a bucket with a hole in the bottom. He would catch a thought, and then it would just leak away. He had to write notes on his sleeves. He had to tape papers to the workbench. He was scared of the day when the bucket would be empty for good. He needed to know who he was, but the names and faces were sliding off into the dark.
One morning, the sun hit the floorboards like a yellow hammer. Mick found a music box on his table. It was made of dark pear wood. He didn’t remember making it. He didn’t remember buying it. He turned the little gold crank.
The music was cold. It wasn’t a happy song for a baby. It was a jagged, slow tune. It sounded like a heavy boot stepping on dry glass. Mick listened. His ears were old, but they knew sounds. He noticed something strange. The notes weren’t just music. They were a pattern.
Three high pings. Two low thuds. A long silence.
Mick looked at the floor. He saw a dark stain near the big grandfather clock. He touched it. It was dry, but it felt sticky. He looked at the music box again. He counted the pins on the rotating drum inside. The pins were placed in a way that looked like the layout of his shop.
He followed the “music.” Three pings meant three steps toward the back door. Two thuds meant two steps toward the cellar. The long silence was where he stopped. He stood over a loose board. His heart felt like a bird trapped in a cage. He pried the board up with a flat tool.
A man was under there. It was Sy. Sy was a man who used to bring Mick coffee and talk about the rain. Sy was dead. His eyes were open, looking at nothing. He had been killed right here in the shop. The music box said it happened exactly one day ago.
Mick felt a cold shiver run down his spine. He didn’t remember Sy dying. He didn’t remember the blood. He looked at his own hands. They were clean. He started to cry, but the tears felt like they belonged to someone else.
“Mick? You okay?”
Mick jumped. He covered the hole with a rug. He looked up. It was Sutton. Sutton was a young man with bright eyes and a quick smile. He helped Mick with the heavy lifting. He was the only person Mick trusted.
“I found a box,” Mick said. His voice was thin and shaky. “A music box, Sutton. It tells a story. A bad one.”
Sutton walked over. He looked at the box. He didn’t look surprised. He looked disappointed. “You weren’t supposed to play that yet, Mick. I made it for you. It was going to be a surprise for tomorrow.”
Mick felt the room spinning. “Why does it play a map to a dead man, Sutton? Why is Sy under the floor?”
Sutton sat down on a stool. He didn’t look like a killer. He looked like a grandson. “Sy was going to take the shop, Mick. He was going to put you in a home. A place with white walls and no clocks. I couldn’t let him do that. You belong here.”
Mick’s eyes stung. “You killed him? For me?”
“I did it for us,” Sutton said. He leaned in close. His breath smelled like peppermint. “And the best part is, you’ll forget this by dinner. You’ll wake up tomorrow, and Sy will just be a guy who stopped coming by. I’ll tell you he moved to the city. You’ll believe me because you love me.”
Mick looked at the clocks. They were all ticking. They were counting down the minutes until his brain leaked again. He looked at the notes on his sleeves. He took a pen and tried to write *Sutton did it* on his palm.
Sutton grabbed his wrist. He did it gently, but his grip was like iron. He took a wet cloth and wiped the ink away. “No more notes today, Mick. It’s time for a nap. You’ve had a long morning.”
Mick felt a deep, soulful ache. He looked at Sutton. He saw the kindness in the boy’s eyes, and it was the scariest thing he had ever seen. Sutton was waiting for the hole in Mick’s head to grow. He was waiting for the truth to fall out.
“I won’t forget,” Mick whispered. He tried to hold the memory of Sy’s dead eyes. He tried to lock it in a vault in his mind.
“Yes, you will,” Sutton said. He started the music box again. The jagged tune filled the room. “The music always washes the slate clean. Just listen to the song, Mick. Just listen to the gears.”
Mick sat in his chair. He watched the sun move across the floor. He felt the secret slipping. He felt the name *Sy* getting smaller and smaller. He looked at the music box. It was a beautiful thing. He wondered where it came from. He wondered why Sutton was looking at him with such sad, loving eyes.
The clock on the wall struck noon. Mick blinked. He looked at the young man in his shop.
“Hello,” Mick said. “Do I know you?”
Sutton smiled. It was a warm, bright smile. “I’m Sutton, Mick. I’m your best friend. I just made you some tea.”
Mick nodded. He felt happy. It was nice to have a friend. He looked at a dark stain on the rug and wondered if he had spilled some oil. He would have to clean that up later, if he remembered. He listened to the clocks. They were the only things in the world that knew the truth, but they weren’t talking. They were just ticking.