Tale#29: Bedtime Tales: Episode17:A Clock That Waited| Tuesday
A Story That Teaches the Power of Patience
The living room was quiet except for the slow ticking of the clock above the bookshelf. It was an old, wooden thing with gold hands and no numbers, just little carved dashes around its circle. It had belonged to Zayn’s grandfather, and no one dared move it. Somehow, it always kept perfect time—even when the power went out or the other clocks blinked confusedly back to life.
Zayn sat cross-legged on the carpet, eyes glued to the clock. The golden hands moved slowly, too slowly, as if they were mocking him. His little fists were clenched in his lap, and his eyebrows were drawn low over his eyes in frustration.
He had been promised. His dad had looked him right in the eye before leaving that morning and said, “After Maghrib, we’ll go for ice cream. Just the two of us.” Zayn had waited all day for it—through his Quran lesson, through lunch, through his sister hogging the TV. He hadn’t even touched the extra cookie his mom had given him. He was saving his appetite for his favorite pistachio scoop from the place near the mosque.
But now Maghrib had come and gone. His father was still not home. The sky outside had already deepened from soft orange to dusky purple, and the stars were starting to peek out like curious little eyes.
He stood up and walked to the front window, pushing the curtain aside with one finger. The street was quiet. No headlights. No familiar blue car. Just the soft rustling of trees and a neighbor dragging a trash bin down the sidewalk. Zayn sighed hard and let the curtain fall back into place.
He turned around, arms folded tight across his chest, and glared at the clock again. “Why does time move like a turtle when you’re waiting?” he mumbled.
The house was too peaceful, too still. His mom was in the kitchen humming while she did the dishes. The warm scent of cardamom tea drifted through the air.
But Zayn felt anything but peaceful.
He grabbed a cushion and flopped down on the floor dramatically, staring at the ceiling. His thoughts raced in circles—Maybe Baba forgot. Maybe he changed his mind. Maybe something happened to him on the way. Maybe he didn’t mean it when he promised. The more he thought, the heavier his chest felt.
He didn't want to cry, but his eyes stung anyway.
“Mama,” he called out, voice half-muffled into the cushion.
She came around the corner, wiping her hands on a towel, her hijab slightly askew from rushing.
“What is it, habibi?”
He looked up at her with wide, damp eyes. “He said he’d be back. He promised.”
She sat down beside him, her expression calm, her voice gentle. “I know, sweetheart. And I believe he meant it. But sometimes, things don’t happen exactly when we want them to. That doesn’t mean they won’t happen.”
Zayn didn’t reply. He hated that feeling—the one where your heart gets all ready for something and then it just… doesn’t come. It felt like being stuck at the top of a slide, waiting for someone to push, but no one ever does.
She reached out and smoothed his hair, her fingers light and warm. “Do you see that clock?”
He nodded slowly.
“It’s been in this house since before you were born. And it’s never in a hurry. It just moves forward, tick by tick, minute by minute. It doesn’t get angry when the time passes slowly. It just… trusts that the next moment will come. And the one after that. And eventually, every hour passes. Just like it should.”
Zayn turned his face toward the clock. It ticked on, steady and calm.
“But it’s so hard to wait,” he whispered.
“I know,” she replied. “It always is. But patience is like a muscle. The more you use it, the stronger it gets.”
They sat there together in silence for a while, the only sound the gentle rhythm of the clock.
And then—just when Zayn had started to let go of the tight knot in his chest—they heard it.
The front door creaked open.
Zayn sat up like he’d been shot out of a cannon. Footsteps. Familiar ones. A bag rustling. And then—
“As-salamu Alaikum!” his father’s voice rang out, warm and cheerful.
Zayn bolted to the hallway and threw himself into his dad’s arms. “You came!”
His father laughed, lifting him slightly off the ground. “Of course I came. I’m sorry I was late. There was traffic and I had to stop for gas, but I never forgot. Ready for that ice cream?”
Zayn’s eyes sparkled. He didn’t even answer—he just nodded, the biggest smile stretching across his face.
And as he ran to grab his shoes, he glanced up at the clock one last time.
It was still ticking.
Still waiting.
Just like him.
And somehow, he felt proud—because he had waited too.
Not perfectly. Not quietly. But he had made it. He had been patient.
And in his heart, something whispered that maybe—just maybe—waiting wasn’t about doing nothing. Maybe it was about trusting that good things come… even if they take time.