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There is a popular saying that states that time waits for no one. As I enter my fifty-fourth year of age, I understand that statement very well. Time indeed waits for no one.

But it lingers. The remnants of times past remain with us, as immutable as the events that time has left behind, as inevitable as the march to the future to which time leads us inexorably.

I am struck by these thoughts as I gaze at an elegant grandfather clock. This particular clock is a design known as a regulator clock. These clocks were known for their accuracy and were used prior to the advent of digital timekeeping to set every watch and clock within a building or business. In addition to the hour and minute, this clock also displays the month and date.

And with each swing of the pendulum, another second passes, completed, etched in stone. Time has moved on. Another event remains.

I wonder if the timepieces I encounter in Geneva will affect me the same way. I'm to be a governess to a young girl who lives with her grandmother at a horological museum dedicated to one of the oldest and most historically significant clockmaking families in Switzerland. I'll see a great many grandfather clocks, I'm sure, along with numerous other timepieces of various ages and sizes. Will I be struck then as I am now by how permanent yet also how ephemeral they are?

“It’s a beautiful piece, Miss Wilcox,” the proprietor tells me.

I smile at him. “Yes, it is. Quite elegant.”

“Indeed. And worth every penny of the asking price. It was constructed in 1830 by the great French clockmaker Guillaume du Paris…”

He continues to tell me the history of the clock, but I don’t pay attention. I am lost in the remains of my own time.

My sister, Annie Wilcox, left my life thirty-one years ago. For twenty-nine of those years, I believed that she had disappeared against her will, either kidnapped or murdered. Recently, thanks to my own efforts and that of my now-fiance, Sean O'Connell, I have learned that she instead left of her own accord. I've spent the ensuing years trying to put together those missing years and learn what ultimately became of my sister.

But it’s hard sometimes. The remnants of time that I discover are often painful and sometimes frightening, like the box of letters I wrote to her shortly after her disappearance.

I haven’t read them yet. I said I would read them when I returned home from my latest position as tutor to a wealthy family in Martha’s Vineyard, but I am nearly two months home now, and I still haven’t opened a single envelope. I am afraid of what I might find inside. I am afraid to learn what time has left for me.

I spent most of my life believing that my sister and I were as thick as thieves, but the more I discover about our shared past, the more I am coming to realize that there was strife between us, bitter strife. I’m not sure how much more I can take before all of the good memories I have are poisoned.

“Will you be financing with us today, Miss Wilcox?”

I blink and smile at the proprietor. “Thank you, Mr. Barkley. I believe I will decline to purchase today, but when I return from overseas, I’ll be sure to visit you.”

Mr. Barkely is clearly disappointed, but he is polite. He bows and says, “Have a pleasant day, ma’am.”

I leave the antique shop and return home. A light snow is falling, and the Boston winter is as cold as always, but I don’t mind it. It helps me focus on the present moment instead of losing myself in the remains of time past.