When the clock struck eight times, when it struck that sonorous and soothing tone, she was relieved. She knew when she was, and that counted for something, at least. When it struck a ninth time, her world fell apart. Surely it couldn’t be nine in the morning already? So little time!
Now what would she do? She couldn’t continue as if it were eight, hoping against hope for an hour lost – out of the question.
“We must be realistic,” she exclaimed to herself, and: “That hour isn’t coming back.”
But where had it got to? She crept casually down the street, though to anyone watching, she would have perhaps stood out – a cheery and brightly dressed twenty-something in long striped socks and with a bluky canvas bag, obviously unaccustomed to the tears starting to well up in her eyes.
“It’s just one hour,” she thought. “And it’s probably better off now, wherever (or whenever) it is.”
Still, there was no harm in looking, which she acknowledged to herself as she rounded the corner of Bisby and Grath. There she almost bumped into Mr. Charles, whom everyone called Charlie, and who worked as an eggsmith down the street (Grath, not Bisby).
“Eggsmiths,” he was fond of saying, “do not actually construct the actual eggs.” Here he would always pause and add, in a conspiratorial aside, “you know, I coined the term myself,” with a tip of an imaginary hat. “Eggsmiths,” – continuing, louder – “but paint the eggs, paint them in varied and marvelous colors.”
That day he noticed that she was obviously unhappy.
“Oh, Charlie!” she exclaimed, before he could say anything, “What will I do? I’ve lost an hour!”
“What’s this, my dear? An hour?”
“Yes… and now I won’t have time to run all my errands!”
“Did one of those errands involve a painted egg, perhaps?” It wasn’t that Mr. Charles was strapped for cash. He simply enjoyed distributing his eggs.
“Well, maybe,” she answered wistfully, her mind momentarily occupied by bright ellipsoids, “but now I’m really trying to find my lost hour.”
“Well,” he said, “I don’t know much about hours, but I do know a place where lots of lost things can be found.”
Her face brightened. “Really? Can we go?”
“Of course,” he said. “Follow me!”
They walked down Bisby, the way she’d been headed, and after two blocks turned onto Main. There, of course, was the town’s hotel, famed as much for its home-style cooking as for the efficiency with which it was run by its owner, Mrs. Hemmshlauher.
Charlie led her into the hotel and down some stairs to a back room. The sign on the door proclaimed, “Lost and Found.”
“Of course,” she said. When she entered the room, she realized that she didn’t even know what an hour looked like, but her mind was quickly diverted by the plethora of wonderful lost items.
“Oh,” she exclaimed. There before her lay an entire tea set made out of what looked like bone. Against a wall rested an ornate African mask, beads hanging off the top. On a table was an industrial-sized roll of twine. “Oh,” she exclaimed again. The room was full of such dusty wonders. She turned to Charlie, who was absorbed in an ancient gilded egg. He read the puzzlement on her face and answered before she could ask: “Mrs. Hemmshlauher doesn’t really like the concept of lost and found. You see, she doesn’t mention this place to the guests, so things that come here usually stay here. Mrs. H. has been running the hotel for years, you know.”
They spent a while in that room then, exploring the layers of treasure. Eventually she remembered her troubles. “Oh,” she said, once more. “I have to go search for my lost item.” Mr. Charles was occupied in the back, so she took her leave of him and the hotel. On the street again, she didn’t quite know what to do, but she was hungry, so she went in search of breakfast. At Art’s diner by the river, she had a muffin while she contemplated her lost time, and watched the geese play.
Eventually Art himself, wearing a turban and polka dot scarf (though she didn’t deign to ask why), came over and sat with her.
“My, we’re looking contemplative today,” he said.
She nodded. “It’s just that I’ve lost some time, and I don’t know where to go to find it.” Art looked at her, head tilted slightly to the left and eyes slightly widened – the way he always did – and stood up.
“When I have a time problem I go to the watchmaker’s down on Grath,” he said, and with that left.
As she departed, she reflected on how strange Art was, but as she walked down Grath she nearly skipped with anticipation at seeing the watchmaker. She’d never met him before, and she had high hopes that of anybody, a clock man would know about missing hours.
The store was filled with clocks, it being a clock store, but she didn’t care. She strode past grandfather clocks and cuckoo-clocks, past water clocks and sundials. In the back she came upon a hunched and weathered old man who somehow still managed to convey a sense of calm and quiet energy. He took off his glasses, put down his tools, and looked up.
“Hello, miss, how can I help you?”
Thrilled at the prospect of her quest reaching a conclusion, she stuttered, and said, “I – I – I’ve lost an hour, sir. This morning I thought it was 8 o’clock, but the bell rang nine, and I’ve been looking for the time ever since.”
“Well,” he said, and paused. A smile played at his eyes. “We have lots of time here.” He took her over to a giant grandfather clock in the corner.
“Old Pops here says the time is 8:57.”
“You mean?”
“Yes,” he said, “your hour was never lost to begin with.”
Maybe she wasn’t so smart, but she knew when to fold. Our protagonist thanked the watchmaker, walked out of the store, and shrugged her shoulders.
“I guess I counted wrong,” she said, and, “maybe I’ll go back in and buy a watch.”
Just then, the clock struck nine.