By: Dharaneeswar
The old cuckoo clock had been sitting on the workbench for years, gathering dust in the corner of Maya’s family shop. Its face was cracked and the cuckoo mechanism jammed, while the intricate carvings on its wooden surface were dulled by time.
Maya’s father had always promised to fix it, but he never got around to it. “That one’s a lost cause,” he would say, shaking his head. But she had always been fascinated by it. It had a charm—worn, imperfect, but full of potential.
That afternoon, with the shop closed and the faint scent of sawdust in the air, Maya decided it was time. She grabbed a toolbox, rolled up her sleeves, and carefully lifted the clock onto the center table.
The first challenge was getting inside. The back panel was warped and stuck, refusing to budge no matter how much she pried at it. Getting inside was harder than she’d expected.
“Come on,” she muttered, grabbing a flathead screwdriver. She wedged it into the seam, and when it finally gave way, she was greeted by a tangled mess of gears, springs, and cobwebs.
Maya had spent countless hours in the shop watching her father work, but facing the tangled mechanisms on her own was intimidating. The gears were rusted, and their teeth worn smooth. She carefully removed each piece, wiped them clean and replaced what couldn’t be saved. The tiny cuckoo bird was stuck inside its perch, its paint chipped and slowly peeling. Maya used the tip of her screwdriver to gently nudge it free, smiling as it sprang forward.
“Hello there,” she said softly, holding the bird in her palm.
Time slipped away as she worked. The sun dipped lower in the sky, and the quiet tick of other clocks in the shop became her only companion. She didn’t notice the ache in her shoulders or the smear of grease on her cheek.
Finally, after hours of tinkering, she tightened the last screw and set the clock upright. She wound the key, holding her breath as she listened.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
A slow grin spread across her face as the cuckoo bird popped out, chirping its cheerful song.
The shop door creaked open just as the clock chimed its first hour. Maya’s father stepped inside.
“You fixed it?” he asked, walking over to inspect her work.
Maya nodded, brushing her hands on her jeans. “Told you it wasn’t a lost cause.”
“You’ve got a knack for this, you know—better than me, maybe,” Her father chuckled, “Well, what’s next on your list of impossible projects?”
Maya looked around the shop, her eyes landing on an old, battered pocket watch buried under a pile of tools. She grinned.
“Let’s see how far this knack of mine goes.”