The Wallet That Ticked

Ferran worked in the workshop inside the clock tower. It was a small room full of gears. Some were as big as plates. Some were as small as coins. They hung on hooks and shone with oil.

He was seventeen. Every morning he climbed ninety steps to get there. His job was to clean the gears. He also fixed the clock when it was wrong. The town clockmaker was away for a week. Today Ferran was alone.

At noon, the big bell rang twelve times. The floor shook a little. Ferran liked that part.

Soon after, he heard feet on the stairs. His friend Esteban came in, out of breath. Esteban took food to people on a bicycle. He had a brown leather wallet in his hand.

"I found it on the bench by the tower door," Esteban said. "Someone left it there."

"So take it to the police."

"I want to look inside first. Then we know whose it is."

Ferran sighed. He made space on the table. Esteban opened the wallet.

There was no money. There were no cards. There was no name. Inside lay only a flat brass coin and a small white card. The card said, "If found, bring my hour home."

"Bring my hour home?" Esteban said. "What does that mean?"

"I don't know." Ferran picked up the coin. It was warm. On its face there was a tiny clock with thin gold hands. "Look at this."

Esteban looked. "It has too many numbers."

Ferran counted. He counted again. "Thirteen," he said. "There are thirteen numbers on this clock."

"That is not possible."

"And listen." Ferran held it near his ear. It ticked, but the sound was strange. It was slow, then fast, then slow again. The little hands turned the wrong way.

"A broken toy," Esteban said.

"Maybe." But Ferran did not think so. His arms felt cold.

They made a plan. First, they were going to find the owner in the normal way. Esteban wrote a sign on the back of a delivery bag. It said, "Wallet found. Ask at the clock tower." They put it on the bench by the door.

Then Esteban jumped on his bicycle. He rode to every shop around the square. He asked the florist and the shoe shop. He asked the man at the news stand. He asked a girl who sold ice cream. He asked two police officers.

Nobody had lost a wallet. Nobody knew the coin.

At three o'clock, Esteban climbed the stairs again. His shirt was wet, and his face was sad.

"Nothing," he said. "Not one person."

"Nobody came to the sign, either." Ferran looked out of the small window. The bench was empty.

The wallet sat on the table. It was hot now. The coin ticked faster and faster. Ferran could hear it from across the room.

"It gets worse," Esteban said. "It wants something."

"It wants to go home."

"Then why doesn't it just go?"

Ferran did not answer. He took the card and read it again. "If found, bring my hour home." He read it slowly, word by word. Then he looked up at the great brass wheel on the wall.

"Hour," he said.

"Yes, hour. So?"

Ferran's voice shook a little. "An hour is a bell. Esteban, this tower rings twelve times at noon. It never rings thirteen. But this coin has thirteen numbers."

Esteban looked at him. "You think the owner lives at the thirteenth hour?"

"I think the hour between twelve and one is very small. Maybe somebody lives there. And maybe that person lost the wallet on a walk."

It sounded crazy, but they had no better idea.

The striking wheel was a thick brass circle. It had twelve notches on its edge. Each notch told the bell how many times to ring. Ferran put his finger on the last one.

"I can cut a new notch," he said. "Then at four o'clock, I turn the wheel to it. The bell rings thirteen times, not four."

"Can you do it fast? It is half past three."

"Hold the lamp."

Ferran took a small file from the wall. The work was hard. The brass was thick, and his hands shook. He filed a little. He stopped and looked. He filed again.

Esteban held the lamp very still. He did not even sneeze.

At ten to four, the notch was ready. It was not pretty, but it was deep and clean. Ferran put the wheel back and closed the little door. Then he turned a small key.

"Now we wait," he said.

They stood side by side, and the minutes went slowly. The gears turned. The wallet lay on the table and hummed like a kettle.

At four o'clock, the bell began.

One. Two. Three. The floor shook under their feet. Four. Five. Six. Ferran held the table with both hands. Seven. Eight. Nine. Ten. Eleven. Twelve.

There was a short silence.

Then the bell rang again. It was a deep sound, deeper than the others. It felt like the whole tower breathed.

Thirteen.

The air near the big clock face moved. It bent like water. A tall woman stepped out of the glass. She wore a long grey coat and carried a small lamp. Her hair was silver, and her eyes were very bright.

"Oh," she said, "there you are!"

She did not look at the boys. She looked at the wallet. She took it in both hands and held it against her chest.

"I lost this on my walk," she said. "I sat on a bench for one minute. I looked up at the birds. When I stood up, the way back was closed. Nobody made the hour sound."

"We are sorry it took so long," Ferran said.

"You made a new hour for me." She smiled. "Nobody did that for a very long time."

She opened the wallet and took out the brass coin. She pressed it into Esteban's hand.

"One extra minute," she said. "Use it well. It is a small gift from the thirteenth hour."

Then she turned and walked back into the clock face. The air closed behind her. The room was quiet.

Esteban opened his hand. The coin was gone. He looked at his watch. It said ten past four. It seemed to him that he had a little more time.

"That was one very big bell," he said.

"Yes."

"The whole town will hear it."

Ferran looked at the new notch and the file in his hand. "I need to tell the clockmaker. Somehow."

Esteban took a deep breath. He walked to the stairs and stopped at the top step.

"Ferran," he said. "Next time, I take the wallet to the police."