Margen
On the street the maps forgot stood a watchmaker's shop open only to those who had lost something more than the time of day. The sign read: «We repair time. We don't ask what for.»
Martín came in on a rainy Thursday with his father's watch in his pocket, stopped at 6:14, the exact time the old man's heart gave out.
—I don't want it to run —said the watchmaker without looking up—. You want that hour never to leave. That's a different thing.
Martín didn't know how to answer. The man took the watch, opened it the way one carefully opens a walnut, and looked inside for a long while.
—I can make six fourteen last as long as you live —he said at last—. But you'll have to give up every other hour like it that comes. No other 6:14 will ever mean anything again.
Martín thought of the trains he'd catch at that hour, of waking up, of the clocks in stations. He thought of his father. He nodded.
He walked out into the street with the watch stopped and warm in his hand. Behind him, the shop was no longer there. In its place, a smooth wall, with no door, as if time, grateful, had decided to keep his secret.