In a dim, crowded cellar in a small house in the southern city of Dvellia, an old clockmaker laboured restlessly. The crackled voice of a panic stricken man droned on in the background from a crushed radio. “Armed soldiers have invaded from the southeast. War has arrived at our doorstep! The city of Kishilla has been bombed heavily; thousands injured and murdered at the hands of our enemies. The harbour city of Dvellia is being targeted next and - ” 

Silence. 

The clockmaker’s hand hovered over the volume knob; frail and freckled.

In the silence, the candle in front of the clockmaker spluttered. The orange flame flickered, illuminating the tiny pieces of metal in front of the man. The clockmaker closed his eyes and pictured the hundreds of people running through the city above. He could see the soot and tears and sweat streaked across their faces as they ran through thick, black, neverending smoke. Running to escape the bombs. Running to escape the war. Running to escape death. 

The clockmaker opened his eyes. Instead of getting up to run to safety, the man continued to work. Determined to finish his clock, the clockmaker picked up the pieces of metal and delicately placed them together. Sighing, he ran his hand over the exterior, carefully pushing down the plates of pitch black painted metal. 

Somewhere upstairs, in another time and another year and another war, the clockmaker remembered a little boy. The word “Papa!” echoing repeatedly like a broken record player from that boy’s mouth. That little boy frantically ran about, searching for his father so that they may find a place  to hide. To seek shelter from Death - who threatened to ensnare them within its cold, serrated talons. 

Downstairs, the clockmaker continued to work. Calmly, he turned a key and watched his creation spring to life. Tick. Tick. Tick, it went.

A bomb exploded somewhere nearby. The clockmaker heard the noise clearly but he wasn’t scared. One more Bang! One more scream. Another silence. 

Still, the clockmaker continued to work. He picked up his most prized possession and stashed it safely in the safe on his left. 

The clockmaker could smell blood. A metallic taste flooded his mouth. His eyes watered slightly. 

BANG! 

The walls caved inwards and the clockmaker closed his eyes. The magnificent creation he had just built lay imprinted beneath his eyelids. 

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The memorial in front of the girl was beautiful. A marble archway stood gloriously, surrounded by small boulders that glowed different colours. On each vibrant boulder was an engraved name, a name of someone lost to the war many years ago. On the archway, the girl saw a black clock. The phrase ‘The clockmaker of Dvellia’s finest creation’ lay carved under it. 

Fascinated and intrigued by the invention, the girl moved forward. As she neared the archway, she was able to see the clock more clearly. The clock itself had been painted a pitch black, resembling a starless sky. Dull grey numbers in the shape of small bombs adorned the border of the clock, glinting maliciously in the afternoon sun. Thick clouds seemed to be moving slowly across the bottom and a silver bird, head bowed in submission, stood in place of the number 12.

The girl seemed confused. What was so extraordinary about this clock?

Ting! The clock struck 3. 

Sparks erupted from the silver bombs as they imploded. Shrieks echoed throughout the courtyard as people started pointing at the clock that was now twisting and turning. Gracefully, the silver bird seemed to melt and transform. Slowly, it lifted its head as the silver paint started to peel off. The bird was now a fiery red colour, wings spread out on either side; an eternal, timeless creature. Captivated, the girl watched with shock as the silver frame turned striking gold. The silver bombs were now balls of fire. They were like stars that illuminated a dark night sky.  

The new clock was breathtaking. 

Silence seemed to echo around the girl. Each pair of eyes glued to the wondrous creation that hung gloriously against the white arch. 

Suddenly, chaos erupted everywhere. Awe and admiration emanated from the crowd as they screamed, pointing at the new clock.

Somewhere behind, a high voice asked, “What type of bird is that mommy?” 

Another voice replied, “It’s a Phoenix.” 

The girl turned her eyes to the Phoenix as a memory surfaced. A faint voice resonated within her, “When a Phoenix dies, it is reborn from its ashes. From the embers something new and exquisite is born. A symbol of hope.”

The girl looked at the multiple boulders surrounding the marble arch. So many lives lost to the war. So much ruination and demolition. Perhaps that was the clockmaker's true message - to have hope. Hope that even after damage occurs, a new world can be created. One that isn’t fueled by hate and by greed but by love and harmony. 

Hope that a better place is borne from the ashes of the last one.