The Witch Who Sold Minutes

Everyone in Valdecierzo knew there was a shop inside the clock tower, although nobody had ever seen it by day. It only opened on the night of 31 October, while the twelve bells were ringing (and in there, each stroke lasted as long as she liked), and it was run by a tiny witch they called Mistress Clepsydra. She sold minutes.

She kept them in glass jars, one minute in each, with a label she wrote down as the buyer dictated it. Whoever broke a jar gained a whole minute at whatever moment they chose: to finish an exam, to catch a train or to say what there had been no time to say. The witch recited three rules to every customer. Minutes only work forwards, never backwards. They are paid for with a one-minute memory, which is lost for ever. And if the buyer dies without spending theirs, the jar goes back to the shop and can only be sold to someone who still remembers them.

Teo was late for everything: for school, for the bus, for birthday parties. His grandmother Aurora, who had never been late for anything in her life, would laugh and always say the same thing: “You’ll be late for everything, Teo. Don’t worry, I’ll save you a minute.” In the spring, his grandmother fell ill. When they finally called Teo, the bus was late and he got off at the wrong floor. By the time he pushed open the door of her room, there was nobody left to say goodbye to.

On the night of 31 October he climbed the hundred and twelve steps of the tower. At the first stroke, the back wall swung open like a door. Inside there were shelves up to the ceiling with jars glowing like fireflies, and the great clock face, seen from inside, served as a window. On the counter, a white cat was asleep in one pan of a pair of copper scales. The other pan was empty.

“I want one minute with my grandmother,” said Teo. “Just one. The goodbye one.” The witch shook her head as the fourth stroke rang out. “Minutes go forwards, boy. None of mine will take you back to that room.”

Teo looked down, about to leave, and then he saw it. On the lowest shelf, among dusty jars, there was one with a label that read: “Aurora. For running late.” “She bought it last year, on this very night,” said the witch. “She never broke it. Now I can only sell it to someone who remembers her.”

“A one-minute memory,” she added, pointing at the empty pan. “Whichever you choose.” Teo closed his eyes. He had thousands of minutes with his grandmother: the afternoon snacks, the card games, her laugh. He wasn’t going to give up any of them. So he chose a different one: the minute in the hospital corridor, with the door open and the bed empty. He put it in the pan, and the white cat opened one eye. The ninth stroke was ringing.

Teo smashed the jar on the floor. For one whole minute, the shop smelt of cinnamon and old playing cards. “Late, as always,” said a voice behind him. “Lucky I saved it for you.” Teo turned round, and he had time for everything. With the twelfth stroke, the tower was just a tower again.