The Pocket Watch Promise

Harold adjusted his jacket one last time, ensuring the chain of his pocket watch was perfectly draped. He wasn’t a vain man, but today felt significant—momentous even—and he wanted everything just so. The slight crease in his brow betrayed his nerves, though.

"Harold, if you tug at that chain any longer, you'll wear it thin," teased Clara, her smirk tugging at the corners of her lips. She adjusted her ruffled dress and held her breath as tilted her head, just enough for the floral arrangement atop her hat could balance without falling to the floor.

Harold glanced down at her, his expression softening. “If you weren’t so clever, Clara, I might’ve taken offense.” He slipped his hand into his pocket to stop himself from fidgeting, resting the other on the chair back for steadiness.

The photograph didn’t capture the warmth of the moment before the camera clicked, when Harold leaned down ever so slightly and whispered, “This watch keeps time, but it can’t measure how long I’d wait for you.”

Clara had smirked wider at that, barely able to hold her pose for the camera.

No one knew yet—only the two of them and now the photographer, who had winked discreetly when Harold slipped him an extra coin for a quick job. Before the day was done, Harold would slip something much more precious into Clara’s hand: a gold band that once belonged to his mother.

The photo became a family treasure, a snapshot of a love that endured wars, recessions, and a dozen stubborn children. And though Harold's watch eventually stopped ticking, Clara always said his words stayed with her - timeless and true - and all who knew her remembered her most by that permanent little smirk.