Rain in London always falls without warning. By the time Arthur pushed open the heavy oak door, his glasses were already fogged over with a thin layer of moisture.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
He was a restorer at an antique clock and watch shop, accustomed to dealing with time that had come to a standstill. Today he was on his way to meet a longtime customer who had emailed him about a nineteenth-century grandfather clock in need of maintenance at 402 Baker Street.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Arthur tucked away his dripping black umbrella and stood in front of the mailboxes in the lobby. He scanned the yellowed numbers: 400, 401, then a sudden jump to 403.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
There was no 402 in between.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Thinking there must be an error in the building\u2019s numbering system, he walked over to the doorman at the front desk, who was reading a newspaper.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cExcuse me, could you tell me how to get to Room 402?\u201d Arthur asked politely.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doorman looked up, adjusted his reading glasses, and replied with a hint of confusion in his eyes: \u201cSir, there has never been a Room 402 in this building. Back then, the developer thought the number \u2018402\u2019 was unlucky, so they skipped it when the building was constructed.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Arthur paused for a moment. He pulled out his phone again and double-checked the email. The sender was listed as \u201cE. Blackwood,\u201d and the address clearly read 402.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
\u201cMaybe it\u2019s in the basement? Or the attic?\u201d Arthur pressed, unwilling to give up.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The doorman shook his head and pointed to a dusty velvet bench in the corner of the lobby: \u201cSir, you can sit there and wait. Perhaps the person you\u2019re looking for is just waiting for the rain to stop.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Feeling somewhat helpless, Arthur had no choice but to sit down on the bench. It faced the main entrance, and through the window he could see the gray, hazy street and pedestrians hurrying by. He looked at his reflection in the glass window and suddenly felt a bit dazed.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Just then, he noticed a line of extremely small letters carved into the carved pattern on the armrest of the bench. He leaned in to take a closer look; it was a line of worn-away engravings:
\u201cTo Arthur, thank you for fixing my time. \u2014E. Blackwood, 1998.\u201d<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Arthur\u2019s heart gave a sudden jolt. In 1998, not long after he\u2019d started his career, he had repaired a pocket watch for a destitute elderly woman without charging her. The watch wasn\u2019t worth much, but it was the only memento she had left of her late husband.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
It suddenly dawned on him: the woman\u2019s name was Eleanor Blackwood.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Arthur looked up and gazed once more at the spot where Room 402 used to be. There was now a wall covered with mirrors, reflecting countless images of the lobby\u2014but not that room.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
The rain gradually stopped. Arthur stood up and did not go looking for that room again. He pushed open the door and stepped out onto the damp street, his steps much lighter than when he had arrived.<\/p>\n\n\n\n
Some rooms may never have existed, but certain encounters and acts of kindness have long since left eternal coordinates in the cracks of time.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":"
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