Timekeepers

An Old Friend

6 pm. No visitors today. The shop is dark, and so is the sky. A boy wrote in careful cursive in the small journal he often kept within a small drawer inside the small desk he had positioned athwart from the entranceway. A blanket of clouds had trapped the sun, hiding the cobblestone streets from its warmth, successfully leading the townsfolk away from its winding path. His pen hesitated as Ryan thought, eyes mindlessly tracing over the shelves around him. They all held large amounts of leather books, stuffed taxidermy, and jars filled with the unexplained, like snakes with three heads. As his coffee-coloured eyes looked over the strange room, he let out a sigh, quick to close the journal laid out in front of him. The stool he sat upon scraped across the floor with a loud thud. His leather shoes tapped against the wooden planks of the storey, but soon his feet fell against something softer; an intricate rug laid across the centre of the floorboards. Ryan reached down into the pocket of his striped pants, pulling out a small key which he soon slid into the keyhole. With a swift turn to the right, the door was locked. He took the key from the keyhole, and flipped a clearly stated 'OPEN' sign to an even more clearly stated, 'CLOSED.' As he strode past the coatrack, up to the stairs that were opposite to the central doorway and up against the left wall, he sighed softly. Ryan's coffee-coloured eyes closed, head tilting back as he placed his hand on the railing. He didn't open his eyes for a long time, that is until the soft pitter-patter of raindrops against the tiled roof filled the room. The corners of his lips pulled back into a relaxed grin, pleased by the rhythmic noises of nature. The stairs squeaked below him, as he made his way to his living quarters.
Another uneventful day. He thought as he walked to his bedroom, readying himself for bed within minutes of entering the room.
Although uneventful, he mused, it has been filled with anticipation and excitement. Or perhaps that's my hunger? As if on queue, his stomach growled. Tonight will be long...
The next morning, he awoke to golden sunlight pouring in through the windows.
"My child," it seemed to coo, "it's time to awake."
Ryan's eyelashes fluttered as his eyes opened, arms extending as a roaring yawn came from him. A grin spread across his lips, happiness pooling over him. He loved mornings. He rolled out of bed and readied for the day as fast as he could. Often, he timed himself, and every morning he tried to break his records. From his lips tumbled numbers as he counted. Two seconds to put on his shirt, but four to button it. Three to put on his pants. Six to find his suspenders, but it took him four to put them on. He pulled on his simple tweed jacket in two seconds, and five seconds per shoe. He added up his seconds and was pleased to discover that it only took twenty-eight seconds to get dressed, successfully beating his record by three seconds. Ryan quickly grabbed his shop key from his small wooden dresser and made his way out his bedroom door. Outside of his room, now lit up by the morning light, was a magnificent little fireplace across from two large chairs, and a small table where he typically ate. With a few long strides, he arrived at the blaze. Inside the fireplace was dry wood, charred black by the previous night's fire and ashes. As its flames sprung to life with a spark of his fire steel, he walked away to his small kitchen. It only held what he needed for his small meals, this morning it happened to be potatoes and molasses, and a pot of tea to drink. He left the container upon the stove to sit and eat his meal, which he ate often. Strange as it may seem, it was something he loved. When the pot shrieked, and he was done with his meal, he took his tea set upon a tray and wandered back downstairs.
For a customer, he briefly considered. Or perhaps that is thought to make a stuffed bird laugh. Ryan walked cautiously down the stairs to not spill his tea, before quickly placing the tray on his desk. Eagerly, he had unlocked the door and flipped the sign to 'OPEN,' only to stall as he watched the empty street, fingers crossed as he hoped it would soon fill with a long line to his shop doors. The young sir returned to his desk, key placed neatly by the sizeable wooden cash register with lovely brass buttons that had been positioned behind his counter and against the wall because it was too large for his desk. He looked at the tray and poured himself tea, with a single cube of sugar dropped in, before switching his attention to the little journal he kept. He opened it, and with a swish of his pen, he was pulled into the golden pages of his dramatic writing of fiction. The loud knock of a fist upon the door was the only thing to pick him from his paper, as his head snapped up. He dropped whatever lay in his hands, and scurried over to the door. He glanced to the clock, which read 11:32.
Rather early for a customer, he noted mentally. But his eyes widened with pure disbelief, as he opened the door. There, right in the doorway of his shop, stood a man. A very handsome man, honestly, with blond hair that remained combed back neatly about his head and brilliant blue eyes that shone in the early morning rays like beautiful gems. His face was sharp and long, but Ryan quickly noticed he had very prominent dimples that curved into his cheeks, gently softening his features. He wore a nice suit, black leather gloves, and shiny shiny shoes. In his hand was a large worn leather suitcase. He seemed so holy, light beaming from behind him as if sent from God himself. Snapping back into reality, the shopkeeper jumped up, accelerating around the desk to arrive in front of him.
The man's smooth, caramel voice filled his ears as he exclaimed, "Ryan, my dear chuckaboo! It's been forever!"