There is a particular kind of solace that lives in my family’s old grandfather clock. It hangs on my wall downstairs, keeping the rhythm of time with its steady, gentle “tick-tock.” On days when life feels brittle, when I am frazzled or unsettled, I listen to that sound, and it’s like a lullaby, a tender reminder of my roots and a reassurance that everything will be okay. It’s my steady anchor, tethered through time to generations before me, holding me close when I feel adrift.

This clock is more than a timepiece—it’s an heirloom passed down from my grandfather. It has marked the passage of time for six generations of my family. It has journeyed across continents, travelling with our family from Finland to Australia, an emblem of constancy in our shifting lives. Its rhythm has been with me since I was a child, echoing through the quiet halls of my grandparents’ home, a gentle, familiar sound that wrapped around me as I lay under thick blankets, eyes drifting shut, listening to its steady pulse.

I remember the soft shuffle of my grandmother as she blessed me, her gentle hands tucking the sheets around me, the soft kiss goodnight before she left to busy herself in the kitchen. There was always comfort in knowing she was just beyond the door, and as I lay there, my child’s heart felt safe, listening to that clock whisper me to sleep. That quiet reassurance, that peaceful lull—the clock has always given that to me, even now, long after my grandmother’s laughter has faded, after my grandfather has gone to a place where time has no meaning.

Now, it is my hands that wind the clock, my fingers that hold the key and give it life. As my grandfather once did each evening, I take up the ritual, and in those moments, I feel so connected to him, to my grandmother, to all those who have wound it before me. It’s a ritual that echoes back through time, reminding me that generations pass, and yet, certain things remain. This clock has seen joy and sorrow, has kept ticking through the laughs and tears of those who came before me. And one day, when I am no longer here, it will still be ticking for the family that will follow, quietly marking the moments, keeping the time for them as it has done for me.

As the years pass, I find myself drawn to the clock more often. Its familiar tempo—its pulse—seems to grow even deeper, like a song that becomes more meaningful with each new verse. I touch its wooden frame, worn smooth from years of care, feeling a quiet pride in being part of its history. Sometimes, when the house is still, I stand before it and imagine the hands of those who once turned its key, winding it with the same care I do now. There’s something sacred in that small act, something that ties me to the quiet resilience of my family.

I often wonder what this clock has witnessed—my grandparents’ laughter echoing through their home, perhaps the worry in their voices during hard times, or the quiet moments they shared, while my grandfather played his violin. When I listen closely, it’s almost as if the clock holds echoes of those memories in its rhythm, carrying them forward as whispers through the years.

One afternoon, my granddaughter comes to me, drawn by the clock’s charm, her little fingers tracing its edges. She looks up with wide, curious eyes and asks, “Who’s inside, making it tick?” I can’t help but smile, and I tell her the story, as my grandmother once told it to me, about how this clock has kept time for our family through every joy and every sorrow. She listens with fascination, eyes shining with wonder, and in that moment, I see the next chapter unfolding. One day, it will be her fingers winding this clock, her heart finding comfort in its steady ticking.

As I watch her, I realise that this old clock doesn’t just measure time; it measures love, perseverance, and the ties that bind us across lifetimes. And one day, when I am just a memory, its quiet pulse will keep carrying forward the love that has been passed from one generation to the next—an endless rhythm, connecting us all, whispering peace to those yet to come.

There’s a beauty, a quiet reverence in knowing that this clock will continue, its sound filling the room, a gentle “tick-tock, tick-tock”—a reminder of those who came before and those who will come after, a timeless rhythm in the endless journey of generations.