In the old market of Darsa hung a clock everyone mocked.
Its glass was cracked. One hand trembled, the other barely moved. No matter the hour, it insisted it was nearly the same time every day. Traders joked that it was useful only for birds who did not care when they arrived.
“Why not fix it?” visitors asked.
“Because it has always been there,” the merchants replied. “And because broken things, like old men, are allowed to remain.”
One morning, a man named Ramin entered the market in a hurry. He was meant to cross the river before noon to close a deal that could change his fortunes. The bridge was narrow and old, but many had crossed it safely for years.
Ramin glanced up at the clock.
It told him he was early.
He frowned. His body felt late. His instincts urged him to move. But the clock, foolish as it was, slowed his steps. He sat to wait, annoyed with himself for listening to a thing everyone laughed at.
Minutes passed. Then more.
A shout rose from beyond the market. The sound of wood cracking followed—sharp, final. The bridge gave way under the weight of a loaded cart. Men fell. Water swallowed voices.
The market went silent.
Ramin stood, legs weak. Had he followed his urgency instead of the clock, he would have been there. On the bridge. Among the broken.
That evening, as the market closed, he returned to the clock. He touched its cracked face with reverence.
The next day, the clock was repaired. It ticked properly, proudly, telling the truth of hours and minutes.
But Ramin did not smile at it anymore.
He had learned what the others had not: that not every delay is a denial, and not every wrong turn is a mistake.
Some pauses are placed where we cannot see the danger ahead.
And sometimes, what we call broken is simply mercy working quietly, refusing to explain itself in advance.
No comments:
Post a Comment