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“What happened to your clock?” Clara asked.
“You have to go,” Jack whispered.
That night, Jack sat on his bed, listening to the tick-tock-tick-tock inside his chest. He decided to fix himself. He took a screwdriver from his father’s toolbox and carefully opened the little door. Inside, among brass gears and a tiny coiled spring, sat the cuckoo bird on its perch.
One day, Jack fell in love. Her name was Clara, and she smelled like cinnamon and old books. When she laughed, the rain stopped. When she looked at him, Jack’s gears spun so fast he thought they might strip.
Not from the clock. From inside him. From the empty space where the clock had been.
“I know,” Jack whispered. “But it’s mine.”
“Why don't you cry?” asked his best friend, Luna, when her goldfish died. Jack looked down. A tiny door opened. “Cuckoo!” it chirped cheerfully. Luna frowned.
