The Watchmaker's Night Call
An old watch repairman's disconnected phone rings at three each night with the sound of ticking. He realizes it is a watch looking for the owner who never came back.
Master Zhong has repaired watches in the basement of the mall for thirty years.
His stall is small; a row of old pocket watches behind glass, clocks of every kind on the wall. At the back, a desk phone whose line was cut long ago — the property manager said the number was cancelled — yet every night at three sharp, it still rings.
Not a ring tone. The old phone's electric hum, “zzz — zzz —”, mixed with a faint tick-tick-tick, as if someone on the other end were setting a watch by it.
The first time, Zhong jumped, lifted the receiver; only the sound of hands moving. He hung up. Three the next night, it rang again.
He refused to believe it, unplugged the line from the wall, shoved it in a drawer. Past midnight, the phone buzzed in the drawer. He took it out, ear to the receiver — tick-tick-tick still. Then he understood: this was no telephone. It was a watch looking for its owner.
The old Shanghai-brand watch in his case was brought in a year before by an old man who said, “Fix it for me, my daughter wore it.” Zhong fixed it; the old man never came back. He checked the log — no phone number after the name.
That winter was bitter. Zhong wiped the watch again and again, wound it full, set it by the receiver. At three the phone rang; he did not answer, only laid the watch down. The hum stopped. It never rang again.
He still keeps that watch, front and center on the counter. Some say he should return it. Zhong shakes his head. “When its owner comes, they'll know it.”