Tick. Tick. Tick.
The house breathed in clocks. Big ones, small ones, brass ones with faded faces, all whispering at once like a hundred nervous hearts. Dev had grown so used to it that the silence between the ticks felt stranger than sound.
He sat cross-legged on the floor, pulling his school shoes tight, watching dust drift through a sunbeam from the half-open window. The monsoon was late this year, and the morning heat was already thick — even the air seemed to wait for rain.
"Dev!" his father called from the next room, his voice muffled by the clatter of dishes. "Are you still staring at that clock again? You'll miss the bus, son!"
"It's five minutes fast," Dev replied automatically.
His father appeared in the doorway, towel slung around his shoulders, still damp from his bath. His hair, once jet-black, carried streaks of grey that the morning light made silver. "You keep saying that" he said, grinning. "But you never change it."
Dev shrugged. "It's more interesting when it's wrong."
"That explains your report card."
He said it without sting, the kind of fatherly joke that softened the air. He crossed the room, picking up his wristwatch from the table. Its glass was cracked — Dev remembered the day it fell, two years ago, yet his father still wore it like a badge.
"You know," his father said, tapping the watch face gently, "time doesn't care if we notice it or not. It just keeps walking."
"I know," Dev said. "That's why I keep watching."
His father smiled, a little sadly. Then he dropped a lunchbox into Dev's bag, patting his shoulder. "Come on, philosopher. Let's walk. The rain's threatening again."
They stepped out into the narrow lane that wound between damp walls. The sky was the color of old tin. Across the street, Meera's mother was hanging clothes on a line, the sheets snapping like sails. Meera herself was sitting on the porch steps, tying her shoelaces, hair still wet from a rushed bath. She looked up as Dev and his father passed, gave a small wave — half-teasing, half-friendly — and went back to her shoes.
Dev's father chuckled. "She still beats you at every exam, no?"
"She studies too much," Dev muttered, but couldn't help smiling.
The bus stop was a crooked shelter by the banyan tree. The driver, as usual, was late. The two of them stood under the hanging roots, listening to the lazy buzz of a ceiling fan from the nearby tea stall.
Dev's father took out his watch again, then squinted at the sky. "Smells like the first rain. You feel it?"
Dev did. A faint scent of dust turning to mud, of waiting. Somewhere, thunder murmured like a clearing throat.
He looked up at his father — at the deep lines around his eyes, at the small scar on his chin from some forgotten accident. These were the kind of details Dev collected, quietly, as if he could store moments in memory like coins in a jar.
The bus finally appeared at the curve, groaning, its yellow paint dulled by years of heat. They climbed aboard, Dev settling by the window while his father spoke briefly with the conductor.
Through the window, raindrops began to tap — a slow, uncertain rhythm. The engine coughed, then steadied. The bus lurched forward.
Dev's father sat beside him and sighed. "Today will be one of those days," he said. "When the world decides to test the brakes."
Dev laughed softly, not realizing how close that joke was to prophecy.
The clocks at home ticked on, all at once, unaware that their master would never return to wind them again.