The day had been a disaster. Slipping on wet tiles, missing elevator doors, getting a door slammed in the face—it was the kind of first day that made every second feel heavier than the last.

The shop area was quieter than the rest of the floor, warm lamplight spilling over display counters. One stall in particular caught attention: gold trim, polished wood, and a faint, steady ticking that seemed to echo in your ears.

Behind the counter stood a tall toon with a round golden clock for a face, his minute and hour hands shifting smoothly. He looked up from a small box of trinkets, leaning his elbows on the counter.

“Ah, another customer,” his voice was smooth and even. “Or perhaps… another victim of the clock’s cruel schedule?”

The corners of your mouth twitched, but you kept your face neutral.

“Oh-ho,” he tilted his head, the hands on his face ticking forward just so. “You’re trying not to laugh. I can see it.”

He straightened suddenly. “Why was the grandfather clock embarrassed?” A beat of silence. “It caught its hands in the wrong place!”

A small puff of air escaped you.

“There it is,” he said, almost triumphantly. “Now then—what’s a clock’s favorite kind of food? Second servings!”

That one earned a short, sharp laugh you couldn’t hold back. His ticking seemed to grow lighter, more playful. He fired off a few more puns, each one worse than the last—each one dragging another laugh out of you until your shoulders loosened.

By the time you walked away with a small paper bag of snacks, the weight of the day felt… lighter. Almost like it had been wound back a little.