Allister felt himself a savior to the damaged ticks, the lost seconds. Hundreds of clocks and watches rested on his shelves, rescued from the heels of boots and the swinging of hammers. Ticks were held responsible for so much. Their price for disappointment was destruction, was annihilation and Allister, well, he rationalized that hammers and heels came down on the little ticks when people wished time to stop without realizing that this tick was not alone. That the ticks bounced from clock to clock. That even if you destroyed each timepiece the sun would drip ticks from its beams.
And so, Allister would rescue these shattered watches, swoop up their damaged contents, and bring them back. To blame timepieces, was a crime in his book of crimes (which he kept sandwiched between a recipe book and an abridged dictionary). Allister would "shush" the timepiece, would calm it, would relax it's bent arms, and promise that it would be all right, that to rest was just that-a rest, that if the timepiece trusted Allister, he would make every tick speak again. He could, of course, promise no exact time that this would happen, but begged for trust until the timepiece released its hold and slept, dreaming of meadows and waterfalls.
Allister would remove the back ever so sweetly and examine each wheel, each part-tediously turning, oiling, removing broken bits, and inserting replacement bits. He'd place his ear next to his friend and listen for ticks that would only come when the clock was well again. The memories of these ticks, Allister swore he could hear those as if they were the present beat. He'd nurse these memories until the clock awoke and ticked in reality.
Allister would set the healed piece on his shelf to tick with the collectively reborn, safe from the hammers and heels of those looking for something to blame, who were too far away to punch the sun, and too hurt to understand that the keepers of time ticked in our beginnings as well as our ends.