Chapter 1: 

Cracks in the frame leave a taste for disdain. What truths are you willing to swallow?

Timestamp: December 24, 2010.
 

Rickety bulbs flickered overhead, casting uneven shadows across the repair shop. In the dead of winter, the city took on a washed-out look—greens choked out by whites, trees stripped bare, and New York's brick storefronts standing like muted ghosts in the snowy landscape. Lamps and fireplaces were the last guardians of warmth, fighting back the cold that gnawed at the streets.

I glanced out the frosted windows. The trees outside looked skeletal, their branches twisting like fingers frozen in a grasp for something just out of reach. The sidewalks were deserted, not that I expected different. It was Christmas Eve, after all. Most people were warm at home, crammed around dinner tables, laughing over ugly sweaters and burnt ham. Not many would spend the night in a dim, dusty repair shop. Not unless they had nowhere better to be.

My reflection looked back at me from the glass—dark eyes, buzzcut, shoulders slumped forward. Just a guy, in an ordinary shop, watching the world spin on without him.

The phone rattled on the counter, snapping me out of my thoughts. I picked it up, already knowing who it was.
"Aaron, late again," I muttered, glancing at the door. If I could afford to fire him, I would have months ago. But I was a sucker, and he knew it. A 25-year-old with a head of messy red hair and the work ethic of a sloth. Aaron was committed to taking more from the job than he gave. I had to respect the consistency if nothing else.

"Hey, boss. You're at the shop?" Aaron's voice sounded too chipper, almost out of place against the cold silence around me. "It's Christmas Eve. Shouldn't you be with family or something?" He was trying to sound casual, but there was a tension in his words, like he realized he'd poked a bruise he couldn't see.

I looked across the street, at the plaza connected to a duplex of family homes. Warm light glowed in the upper windows, and I could just make out shadows moving—silhouettes laughing, hugging, dancing. I ground my teeth. I could barely picture a scene like that with my own family. It felt more like a memory from a life I never lived.

"I'm fine here," I said, a little sharper than I meant to. My eyes fell to the floor, even though Aaron couldn't see me. I could've lied and said I had dinner plans. But the words wouldn't come. They never did.

Aaron went quiet on the other end, then cleared his throat. "Didn't mean to hit a nerve. Just... y'know, everyone deserves to spend the holidays with loved ones."

I let out a breath, shoulders loosening. "It's fine, kid. You were just being nice." I turned away from the window, pretending to be busy rearranging a jar of loose screws. Anything to avoid the reflection staring back at me.

My father had left when I was fourteen. Said he was going out to get groceries and never came back. Just like that, he was gone—like a ghost, wiped clean from our lives. For years, I kept the phone by my bed, convinced I'd hear his voice on the other end someday. That I'd get answers. But he never called. I gave up waiting a long time ago.

After that, the holidays became... quiet. My mom and I would sit in the living room, the Christmas tree blinking softly. I'd unwrap a present while she watched, her face a mask of forced cheer. Then she'd lecture me for tearing the paper too fast, saying she wanted to save it. Eventually, I stopped opening gifts in front of her. Stopped caring about the holidays at all.

"You could come over to my place," Aaron offered, breaking the silence. "My mom's been cooking all day. You tried those muffins I brought last week, right? Her cakes are even better. And she makes enough to feed an army. There's always an extra chair."

I grunted. "Can't. My mom... well, it's complicated." The lie tasted bitter, but it was better than the truth. I wasn't about to crash his family's dinner and sour the mood. The kid deserved a good Christmas.

"You sure?" He didn't sound convinced. "Seriously, no pressure, but if you change your mind—"

"I won't. Just... have a good Christmas, alright?" I hung up before he could argue.

Silence filled the shop again, thick and heavy. I looked around. Everything was in its place, spotless and organized. There was nothing left to do.

I drifted to the register and pulled out my favorite pen, the one that left dark, inky lines. My gaze fell on the calendar hanging above the counter, days marked off in a strict pattern. I uncapped the pen and drew a line through December 24th. Only one more day until the world stopped pretending to care.

A faint chime sounded behind me. I turned, expecting a customer, but the shop was empty. Just the wind howling outside. But then, the bell on the door jangled again, and a girl stepped inside.

She looked no older than thirteen, almost swallowed by the clock she was hauling in her arms. It was shaped like a Medieval tower, tall and narrow, painted black with intricate mahogany spires. There were thin pillars on each side and a belfry at the top that gleamed faintly. At the base, wooden double doors were carved with tiny, twisting vines.

As she approached the counter, there was something familiar about her—not like I'd seen her before, but she didn't feel like a stranger, either. My mother once told me some people could slip right under your skin like that. They wore the plainest faces and made you think they were harmless. Those were the ones to watch out for.

But this girl didn't seem especially kind, and she didn't look like she was scheming, either. She stopped in front of the counter and shook the snow off her jacket, dust and flakes scattering to the floor. Droplets trailed down her sides as she heaved the clock onto the counter. For a girl whose legs looked thinner than my arms, it was a wonder she could lift something so heavy.

"So, what can I do for you?" I asked, trying to get a look at her face, hidden under a hoodie and a wild mane of black curls that framed her head like a lion's mane. Her copper skin was just a shade lighter than mine.

She mumbled something, words tumbling out too fast and low to catch. Her eyes stayed glued to the floor, and from where I stood, she looked like nothing more than a tangle of hair.

I sighed. "Hey, mind looking up? Kinda hard to talk to someone's scalp."

She flinched. For a second, the air thickened, and I wondered if I'd hit a nerve. I didn't expect much business today, but I wasn't about to scare off a paying customer. Whatever she wanted with that clock, I could use the job. It looked fine to me—eccentric, sure, but the hands were in the right spots.

She finally pushed her curls away from her face. Her hoodie slid off her shoulders, and I got a clear look at her for the first time. Dark brown, almond-shaped eyes stared up at me. They looked oddly familiar, like my own reflection on a bad day. Her rounded nose, full lips... even her wary expression felt like something I'd worn before.

I shook off the thought. Just another case of my mind playing tricks. I'd been seeing ghosts in familiar faces lately—last week, I could've sworn the mailman was an old childhood friend. My memory was getting worse, clutching at random faces just to make sense of things.

"Sorry about that," she mumbled, her voice a little clearer now. I gave her a nod, glad she was speaking up.

"All good. What can I do for you today?"

She tapped the clock, her fingers trembling just a bit. "It's broken. The Nutcracker never comes out like it's supposed to."

Not the end of the world, then. I let out a breath. "Alright, let's see what's going on."

I turned the clock over, fingers brushing against its delicate carvings. It was heavier than I expected. I twisted the control knob, and the hands moved smoothly to the twelve, but the little door at the base stayed shut. The Nutcracker didn't pop out. I frowned, peering inside. Looked delicate—maybe she'd wound it too tight.

I felt something behind the door, like a tiny figure standing at attention. I squinted, spotting a little soldier posed like an officer in an old war photo, staff by his side, waiting for orders.

The girl's voice broke through my thoughts. "I was hoping to get it fixed before New Year's."

I shook my head. "No can do. I'd have to order parts, and they won't get here in time. You'll have to come back after the holiday."

Her shoulders slumped. "Ah... but I really need it before then."

I leaned back, crossing my arms. "Sorry, kid. If your mom's gonna chew you out for breaking her clock, that's tough, but I can't make parts appear outta thin air."

She looked up, eyes wide and pleading. "It's not like that... It's for the anniversary. For my mom."

Something twisted in my chest. "I'm sorry."

She let out a shaky breath. "It's... it's okay. I'm just trying to make peace with it, y'know?" Her eyes flicked back to the clock, sadness weighing them down. "Can you fix it? Please?"

I hesitated, running my fingers along the clock's edge, considering what parts I'd need. Maybe I could find some nearby if I looked hard enough.

"I'll do my best. Might have to get creative with the repairs, though."

Her face brightened. "Thank you!"

I turned the clock over again, examining the intricate designs carved into its surface. "This looks like it's from the 1920s. Been in your family a while?"

Her voice dropped to a whisper. "I... I don't really know. My mom passed away when I was born."

I looked up, my heart tightening. "I'm sorry to hear that."

She fiddled with her sleeves. "It's always been around, but... my dad said I should get it fixed before the anniversary."

I traced the carvings with my thumb and noticed a dent on the side, just about the size of a bullet. I told myself it was normal wear and tear. Nothing sinister about an old clock getting banged up.

I looked back at the girl, her big eyes still fixed on me. "That'll be forty-five bucks."

Her face fell. She dug into her pockets, pulling out a crumpled twenty and a handful of buttons. Her fingers shook as she turned her jacket pockets inside out, then moved to her jeans, coming up empty. She even checked her shirt pockets, managing to scrounge up another two dollars, looking at them like they were gold coins.

I tapped my fingers on the counter, averting my gaze as she patted down her collar. I glanced out the window, relieved to see no passersby to witness this sad scene. But no amount of looking away could make her pockets any fuller.

She lightly dropped the twenty-two dollars on the table, then clasped her hands together. "Please, please sir, I really need to get this fixed."

I shook my head. "Go ask your dad for the rest.'

'He's in jail,' She said quietly. 'I'm filing for emancipation.'

I swallowed hard. I couldn't imagine being that alone at her age.

Hands tied behind her back, She began to fidget anxiously. She was waiting for my decision — whether I'd choose to hang her dry, as many adult figures in her life seemed to have done. I saw forking pathways. One, she would only be able to traverse with my help. Even if she went to the cheapest repair shop in the state, they wouldn't be able to get this repair done, within her budget, within her timeline. If I said no, that would be a glum end to the holiday season.

I released a huge sigh. I felt like I was doing a lot of that today. After I was sure that I wouldn't peel back my conviction a minute later, I waved the girl off.

A clear sign that I didn't want to hear any more from her, as I was overwhelmed by all the sob stories.

And, I was going to fix the clock that I hadn't gestured for her to retrieve.

She jumped to grab my hands in hers — her palms were beaten up, but held on firmly. "Thank you! I will be back for it!" She exclaimed as she yanked my wrist up and down.

I gave her a thin smile as she started for the door, sounding the chimes once she departed the shop.

The week's only customer was gone, and I cursed myself for working for free. The store wasn't making enough to afford that kind of generosity. I flipped the 'Open' sign to 'Closed' and slinked into the staff room. It was a small area cordoned off by a narrow alcove. Inside were two tables, three wooden chairs (one of which had lost one of its legs at an unknown date, for yet undetermined reasons), a bed, and a kitchenette that allowed Landon and Aaron to heat up and chill food when necessary. I was not in the mood for coffee. It'd only amplify my bitter mood.

I did, however, benefit from removing myself from my present obligations. Thus, I brewed a cup of coffee, threw my tattered loafers up on the table, and pondered where I should go for the holidays.

My mind short-circuited on possibilities. Although I'd promised to visit my mother, I no longer carried the threshold to bear her quarrels. She'd definitely sling a jibe or two when I entered her door, and I'd also have to brace for the not-so-passive aggression that'd loom the rest of my stay.

The thought of visiting my mom felt more like imprisonment. Spending time with Aaron didn't seem so bad; at least he seemed sincere about wanting to connect. The only problem was that I wasn't hoping to have another holiday I couldn't remember.

Remember...

I slurped from my coffee mug. The caffeine elicited memories of my conversation with Simone — who, compared to him, had a pitiful backstory. I wasn't the unluckiest person in the world.

Suddenly, I was overcome with the urge to look for a certain contact on my phone. I took a peek at their name and giggled.

"I guess I won't be a liar today."