The Awkward Love Song of Abigail Archer

Chapter Seven

CHAPTER SEVEN

Marcus gazed down at the folded paper in his hands. There was nothing wrong. His list had been waiting in the stackable filer as was common. But in silence he stood in the darkened hallway of the watch repair shop and stared down at the folded sheet of lined paper as the truth of it all sunk deeper into his bones. It had slowly become a torturous ceremony that with each day grew more painful. But that night everything had changed. The waiting and wondering if Abigail had been spared one more day was eclipsed by one single thought. Mr. Owens was dead and now Marcus was all Abigail had left. She needed him and he needed her, but in looking down at the list, worry surfaced. Would he ever have the chance to prove it to her? Marcus gripped the sheet music entrusted to him tighter as the enormity of the situation hit him all at once. What would he see upon reading the names on the list? He squeezed his eyes shut.

He had to open that list.

He couldn’t open that list.

Light filtered down the hall from the Timekeeper’s workroom. Unopened list in hand, Marcus approached and hovered just outside the threshold, watching the Timekeeper care for another clock. Each screw was tended to with measured breaths.

“Is there a problem, Mr. Kent?” the Timekeeper said from over his work, his gaze not lifting from the exposed watch. Marcus moved farther into the dimly lit room, much more than he dared the day prior. He didn’t answer.

Fifteen minutes later, he had yet to say a word.

The creases in the Timekeeper’s forehead deepened. “Your list was there, was it not?”

Again, Marcus offered nothing. Instead he took in a deep breath and absently held up the list, in no way understanding the nervousness that plagued him. Well, understanding it yes, but denying fully.

“And what did it say?” the Timekeeper asked. While sounding undaunted, Marcus noted how rigid the old man grew in asking the question, his secret fear betrayed by the slight pause in his work as he waited for an answer.

“I’ve yet to open it,” he admitted quietly. “But I was thinking that maybe…well, it just seems to me that…” He paused. “When I retrieve the list, it’s folded. Surely someone is responsible for doing so. I thought that would be you, and perhaps when carrying out your task, you noticed the names on the list…” Marcus trailed off in hopes the Timekeeper understood his silent plea.

The Timekeeper let out a measured breath. He swiveled around on his chair and reached to a shelf in the shadows above him. When he turned back to Marcus, he held a thick ledger whose leather cover was cracked with age. Various slips of yellowed paper spilled out from within, as if pushed out by the newly added white sheets.

With one hand, the Timekeeper gently brushed aside the clock being repaired and set the ledger down in its stead. He breezed through the first few pages in silence.

“I never know of the names on the list,” he revealed and, finding what he searched for, turned the book, and slid it across the desk to Marcus. Marcus instantly noted his name scribbled on the top right hand corner of the page. Below his name was a row of numbers running the length of the gridded page. Beside the numbers, there weren’t any names.

“Every day, each time the arrow strikes twelve, there is a knock at that door.” The Timekeeper jerked his chin in the direction of a wooden door at the far end of the room. Marcus’s eyes narrowed, adjusting to the darkness. There was indeed a door. He’d never noticed it, but then again just two days ago, he never would have dared enter the workroom.

The Timekeeper continued. “When I answer, there is only a box with an assortment of clocks, and folded lists in pairs, one for the collector and one for me. I set yours in your mailbox. I take mine and wait. Unlike your list, the names appear on mine only when the soul is about to be collected,” he explained. “I’m sorry I can’t be of help. I am simply the messenger, Marcus. Nothing more.”