A story
Suha Helps the Clockmaker Find His Tiny Golden Key
At the end of a narrow street in the old market, there was a little shop with a green door and a window full of clocks. There were tall clocks and round clocks, clocks with painted flowers and clocks shaped like little houses. All day long they went tick, tock, tick, tock, and every hour they rang together: ding, dong, cuckoo, bong!
The shop belonged to Uncle Anwar, the clockmaker. He had a white mustache, a pair of round glasses, and a kind, crinkly smile. Every afternoon after school, Suha stopped by his shop on her way home. She was seven years old, and she loved to watch him work.
Uncle Anwar sat at a wooden table under a bright lamp. He used tiny screwdrivers and tweezers as thin as a bird's beak. He opened the backs of the clocks and fixed the little wheels inside, which turned and clicked like a secret dance.
"Every clock has a heart," he told Suha. "We must listen carefully to hear it."
One afternoon, Suha pushed open the green door and found the shop strangely quiet. Uncle Anwar was not at his table. He was on his hands and knees, peering under a cabinet.
"Uncle Anwar? Are you all right?" asked Suha.
He sat up and pushed his glasses back onto his nose. "Ah, Suha. I have lost my little golden key."
Suha knew the key. It was no longer than her finger, with a tiny heart-shaped handle. It was the key that wound the oldest clock in the shop, a tall wooden clock with a painted moon on its face. Uncle Anwar's grandfather had made that clock long ago.
"If I do not wind it today," said Uncle Anwar, "it will stop tonight. It has not stopped in fifty years."
Suha put down her school bag. "I will help you look," she said.
First, they looked on the worktable. They moved the screwdrivers and the jars of tiny screws. They lifted the cloth and shook it gently. There were springs and wheels and a button, but no golden key.
Then they looked on the floor. Suha crawled under the chairs. She found a pencil, a paper clip, and a peppermint still in its wrapper. But no golden key.
Suha sat back on her heels. She wanted to rush around the shop, pulling open every drawer at once. But then she remembered what Uncle Anwar always said. We must listen carefully.
"Uncle Anwar," she said, "where were you when you last had the key?"
He thought for a moment. "This morning, I wound the moon clock. Then I put the key in my waistcoat pocket. Then I went to the bakery to buy bread."
"So the key went to the bakery," said Suha. "Let us walk the same way you walked."
Uncle Anwar smiled. "A very clever idea."
So they hung a little sign on the green door and stepped out into the busy street.
The market was full of sounds and smells. A man was selling oranges piled high in a pyramid. A woman was pouring tea from a tall shining pot. Pigeons cooed on the rooftops, and somewhere a radio was playing a happy song.
Suha walked slowly. She looked down at the stones of the street, one by one. Uncle Anwar walked beside her, looking too.
At the orange stall, the seller waved. "Good afternoon, Uncle Anwar! Did you drop something this morning? You bent down to tie your shoe right here."
They searched around the orange crates. They found orange peel and a leaf, but no key.
At the corner, there was a fountain with blue tiles and a little stone bench. "I sat here to rest," said Uncle Anwar. Suha looked under the bench and along the edge of the fountain. The water sparkled and splashed. But there was no key.
Suha felt a little worried. Maybe the key was gone forever. Then she took a deep breath. "There is still the bakery," she said.
The bakery smelled of warm bread and sesame. Shelves of round loaves glowed golden in the light from the oven. The baker, a tall woman with flour on her cheeks, laughed when she saw them.
"Uncle Anwar! I was hoping you would come back," she said. "My little boy found something on the floor this morning, right where you stood. He has been playing with it all day. He says it is a key to a treasure chest."
From behind the counter came a small boy with flour on his nose. In his hand was something tiny and gold, with a heart-shaped handle.
"The golden key!" cried Suha.
The little boy held it tightly. He looked at Uncle Anwar and then down at the floor. "Is it yours?" he asked in a small voice.
"It is," said Uncle Anwar gently. "It winds a very old clock that has a painted moon on its face. Would you like to come and see it?"
The boy's face lit up. He looked at his mother, and she nodded. Then he placed the key carefully in Uncle Anwar's hand.
So all of them walked back through the market together: Uncle Anwar, Suha, the baker's boy, and the baker too, carrying a warm loaf wrapped in paper as a gift.
In the shop, the moon clock stood tall and patient. Uncle Anwar opened its little glass door. He let the baker's boy put the key in the hole, and Suha helped him turn it. Click, click, click.
The clock gave a happy whirr. Its painted moon seemed to shine a little brighter. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Then all the clocks in the shop rang out together. It was five o'clock. Ding, dong, cuckoo, bong!
The baker's boy laughed and clapped his hands. Suha laughed too.
Uncle Anwar took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. "Thank you, Suha," he said. "When I was worried, I wanted to search everywhere at once. You helped me slow down and follow my own footsteps."
That evening, Suha walked home with a piece of warm bread in her hand. Behind her, in the little shop with the green door, the old moon clock went on ticking, steady and safe, just as it had for fifty years.
The shop belonged to Uncle Anwar, the clockmaker. He had a white mustache, a pair of round glasses, and a kind, crinkly smile. Every afternoon after school, Suha stopped by his shop on her way home. She was seven years old, and she loved to watch him work.
Uncle Anwar sat at a wooden table under a bright lamp. He used tiny screwdrivers and tweezers as thin as a bird's beak. He opened the backs of the clocks and fixed the little wheels inside, which turned and clicked like a secret dance.
"Every clock has a heart," he told Suha. "We must listen carefully to hear it."
One afternoon, Suha pushed open the green door and found the shop strangely quiet. Uncle Anwar was not at his table. He was on his hands and knees, peering under a cabinet.
"Uncle Anwar? Are you all right?" asked Suha.
He sat up and pushed his glasses back onto his nose. "Ah, Suha. I have lost my little golden key."
Suha knew the key. It was no longer than her finger, with a tiny heart-shaped handle. It was the key that wound the oldest clock in the shop, a tall wooden clock with a painted moon on its face. Uncle Anwar's grandfather had made that clock long ago.
"If I do not wind it today," said Uncle Anwar, "it will stop tonight. It has not stopped in fifty years."
Suha put down her school bag. "I will help you look," she said.
First, they looked on the worktable. They moved the screwdrivers and the jars of tiny screws. They lifted the cloth and shook it gently. There were springs and wheels and a button, but no golden key.
Then they looked on the floor. Suha crawled under the chairs. She found a pencil, a paper clip, and a peppermint still in its wrapper. But no golden key.
Suha sat back on her heels. She wanted to rush around the shop, pulling open every drawer at once. But then she remembered what Uncle Anwar always said. We must listen carefully.
"Uncle Anwar," she said, "where were you when you last had the key?"
He thought for a moment. "This morning, I wound the moon clock. Then I put the key in my waistcoat pocket. Then I went to the bakery to buy bread."
"So the key went to the bakery," said Suha. "Let us walk the same way you walked."
Uncle Anwar smiled. "A very clever idea."
So they hung a little sign on the green door and stepped out into the busy street.
The market was full of sounds and smells. A man was selling oranges piled high in a pyramid. A woman was pouring tea from a tall shining pot. Pigeons cooed on the rooftops, and somewhere a radio was playing a happy song.
Suha walked slowly. She looked down at the stones of the street, one by one. Uncle Anwar walked beside her, looking too.
At the orange stall, the seller waved. "Good afternoon, Uncle Anwar! Did you drop something this morning? You bent down to tie your shoe right here."
They searched around the orange crates. They found orange peel and a leaf, but no key.
At the corner, there was a fountain with blue tiles and a little stone bench. "I sat here to rest," said Uncle Anwar. Suha looked under the bench and along the edge of the fountain. The water sparkled and splashed. But there was no key.
Suha felt a little worried. Maybe the key was gone forever. Then she took a deep breath. "There is still the bakery," she said.
The bakery smelled of warm bread and sesame. Shelves of round loaves glowed golden in the light from the oven. The baker, a tall woman with flour on her cheeks, laughed when she saw them.
"Uncle Anwar! I was hoping you would come back," she said. "My little boy found something on the floor this morning, right where you stood. He has been playing with it all day. He says it is a key to a treasure chest."
From behind the counter came a small boy with flour on his nose. In his hand was something tiny and gold, with a heart-shaped handle.
"The golden key!" cried Suha.
The little boy held it tightly. He looked at Uncle Anwar and then down at the floor. "Is it yours?" he asked in a small voice.
"It is," said Uncle Anwar gently. "It winds a very old clock that has a painted moon on its face. Would you like to come and see it?"
The boy's face lit up. He looked at his mother, and she nodded. Then he placed the key carefully in Uncle Anwar's hand.
So all of them walked back through the market together: Uncle Anwar, Suha, the baker's boy, and the baker too, carrying a warm loaf wrapped in paper as a gift.
In the shop, the moon clock stood tall and patient. Uncle Anwar opened its little glass door. He let the baker's boy put the key in the hole, and Suha helped him turn it. Click, click, click.
The clock gave a happy whirr. Its painted moon seemed to shine a little brighter. Tick, tock, tick, tock.
Then all the clocks in the shop rang out together. It was five o'clock. Ding, dong, cuckoo, bong!
The baker's boy laughed and clapped his hands. Suha laughed too.
Uncle Anwar took off his glasses and wiped them on his sleeve. "Thank you, Suha," he said. "When I was worried, I wanted to search everywhere at once. You helped me slow down and follow my own footsteps."
That evening, Suha walked home with a piece of warm bread in her hand. Behind her, in the little shop with the green door, the old moon clock went on ticking, steady and safe, just as it had for fifty years.
