In the box, she kept her clockwork heart.

It was simple physics, the teacher said. Everything was bound to run out eventually,

that was the way of things. Though she could never tell from listening, each tiny tick of the

clockwork heart would be fainter than the last. She was so terrified of the ticks running out

that she’d locked the thing in a little wooden box, and hid the box in a dark spot beneath a

tree, hoping it would keep the ticks from escaping.

When the wind-up soldiers came, she’d made a prayer that they wouldn’t find it; first,

a prayer to the Brass God, and then one to the Wood God for good measure. The soldiers

passed her heart by, in the end, and she wasn’t sure which god to thank – all they did was

burn the village.

Now, after four days of walking, her bare feet were covered in blisters and her face

was filthy. But in all that time, the wooden box and her clockwork heart had never left her

hands.

On the outskirts of the City of Light, a kind old man gave her food and somewhere to

sleep. She stayed there for a week, either napping beneath the dimming Autumn sun, or

exploring his little grounds. Behind his house, under a canopy of burnt orange leaves, were

three headstones, each one a few inches shorter than the last.

One day, he asked her about the wooden box. “What’s inside there?” he’d said.

“My heart,” she’d answered. The old man had smiled then, one of those sad, pity-

filled smiles that older folks save for children, and made resentment rise in her throat. She

wasn’t quite sure, but she thought the rests between the ticks in the box were getting that bit

shorter. Anger, perhaps? Impatience? That night, she decided to leave. 

She kept away from the City: the people there were too tall, too far away, their eyes

hidden behind shadow. They did terrible things with time there, everybody knew that.

Instead, she ventured further into the woods. 

The path was lit by moonlight, a deep and cool silver that seemed to drain the colour

from the world. Her breath turned to crystals in the air and glittered like a dream. As she

walked, her mind drifted, freed from the confines of her cold and congested head, freed from

the endless tick-ticking. 

In the crystal fog of memory, her mother’s face took shape. In her childhood days,

mother’s eyes had been a lovely brown, like sunset, like amber tears of a weeping

tree…Now, though, they were cold blue crescents, icy stars set in a pale face.

And her voice. What did her voice sound like? In the half-awake dream it was crisp,

all edge and no depth. She remembered the song mother used to sing, when she had to leave

for the gathering festivals; it was a promise that she’d come back.

On Winter’s night, or Summer’s day,

If Autumn sprites come out to play,

I’ll share with you.

We’ll never stray.

Though oceans dark might bid us part,

You’ll give to me your tick-tock heart.

She shuddered at the memory, the dream shattered. She held the box close.

By morning, she reached a new village. The wind-up soldiers had burned this one,

too, but left one of their own behind; he was snapped in half, broken at the waist. His pipes

leaked an evil fluid into the earth.

Tentatively, she approached him, pressing her heart deep into her chest. He smelled

like all the soldiers did, of oil and polish and dirty grease. His eyes followed her, rolling in

their sockets. They were living eyes, still, despite his broken spine, and filled with unblinking

fear. 

Fear of a barefoot child, how funny, she thought. The breeze, though gentle, blew

through the soldier’s pipes, playing a sad little tune that half-mourned, half-mocked him. She

watched him die for a while, enjoying the music, but soon enough she grew bored, and went

to sit by one of the houses he’d destroyed. 

She felt a need to check on her clockwork heart. It was still ticking, surely – the box

was solid, and it was never far from her. Still, it had been so long since she had looked, since

she had cast her eyes on the actual thing. What if something was broken? A loose spring, a

chipped wheel; why, there could be any number of things wrong with her heart.

Gently, her finger probed the gap between the box and the lid. For a moment, she

paused, wondering at the wisdom of the act. There would be a cost to this. A few ticks would

be lost, escaping into the world, little lost ghosts of a long-gone heartbeat that she could never

get back. Would it be worth it? If it meant stopping some greater damage, then she supposed

so. She’d just have to be quick.

With a flick, the lid flipped over.

Her heart was still.

It didn’t tick, and it didn’t tock. It didn’t shake or rattle, or stir one bit. It was still and

silent: not one cog was spinning. Her heart was broken.

How can this be? she thought. How could I have made it so far without my heart? She

shook the thing, twisted it around in her hands, span the tiny gears with her fingers, but

nothing made it move. It simply refused to work.

After a while, she just gave in. She sat in a melancholy pose, her legs crossed, her

clockwork heart laid in her lap. For the rest of the day, she had nothing. She did nothing.

There was only the Autumn breeze, and the sad melody of the dying soldier’s pipes, and the

conspicuous lack of ticking.