A grandson breaks an old clock and learns how time is repaired: not with glue alone, but with memory.
**Hook:** The clock on Grandfather’s shelf ticked like a small heart you could hear. Arjun chased a paper plane, slipped, and the clock learned to fly—once.
**Rise:** Springs scattered like punctuation; the glass sighed into glitter. Arjun froze, then swept the shards into a guilty pocket of air. Grandfather arrived, not with thunder, but with a chair. “Bring the pieces,” he said. “Bring also the truth.” They sat at the table. Out came tweezers, oil, a loupe, and stories: how the clock had crossed a border in a shoebox, how it had once stopped at the exact minute Grandmother said yes.
Arjun confessed, hands shaking. Grandfather nodded at the barrel spring. “Strong things unwind when wound wrong,” he said. Together they coaxed the spring back, taught the gear to hold teeth like promises, set the hands to the kitchen’s only honest time: now. The tick returned, shy but sincere.
**Finish:** Grandfather placed the clock into Arjun’s palms. “Time breaks; people fix,” he said. “Never run from the sound you broke—run to it.” Arjun’s paper planes flew slower after that, but farther. **Moral:** Responsibility is how we repair minutes into meaning.
