Clock

 

The Grandmother Clock had stood silent as long as anyone could remember.

“I don’t know what’s wrong with it. It’s just never worked” said its owner, and she hid it out of the way in a hallway.

When she died, the clock went to her son, her quiet son who never asked for anything, because the other two sons didn’t want it.

Because it didn’t work.

He took it to the clock repair shop, a dusty little shop gloomy with obsolescence, and the shop owner examined it and laughed.

“There’s nothing wrong with it. It just needs a winding key.”