Stop all the clocks, cut off the telephone,
Prevent the dog from barking with a juicy bone,
Silence the pianos and with muffled drum
Bring out the coffin, let the mourners come. - W. H. Auden
 
All the clocks stopped.  
Well, all of them except for Farid's. 
Farid checked his tiny wristwatch in the dim light of the hesitant dawn. It was 5:45 AM, and it was time to get to work. Just as he rose, a thought hit him; he quickly looked at the tiny inscriptions marking the date at the center of the watch. It was January 9, 2032. It had been exactly eight years since time stopped. Farid scoffed, shaking his head, remembering the scientists' joy when they bent the flow of time until it collapsed within itself. "Everyone can live forever!" was the headline in the Times, and in a way, they can, or they could've, or they would've - but they didn't. 
Farid opened the curtains in a flurry and exposed the harsh truth of a city without time. The slanted rays of the morning sun illuminated everything that was and used to be: the streets were cluttered with litter, the row of previously pristine housing was disintegrating into ruin, and these ancient spectacles were coated in a thick layer of dust. And then, there were the people, still stuck in their youthful bodies but with a dull glow tainting their once bright eyes. Even though they live, Farid thought mercilessly, they die a little more every second.
Still mulling over his morning melancholy, Farid sat in his armchair and lit his pipe. He took a long drag that transported him to that fateful afternoon eight years ago. 
The sunset was beautiful that day, but as the red-orange glow faded into the milky twilight, everyone in the city was glued to the TV. Farid had just finished his afternoon prayer when the clocks stopped, and the ecstatic chants of "Forever-life!" echoed through the streets of Jalalabad. However, Farid was not screaming in deceitful joy. On the news ticker scrolling across the bottom of the television screen, he saw a warrant for the arrest of all watchmakers. He was a watchmaker. He, Farid Jahar, was the best watchmaker in Afghanistan. Suddenly, the TV screen cut to a violent shooting of a watchmaker in New York, then in Shanghai, and the last one in his hometown - Jalalabad.
So, Farid ran. 
Farid ran because he was one of the few timekeepers left on this planet. He ran because the wicked scientists' guarantees of forever life did not apply to him. And so, after leaping from one taxicab to another, to the airport and a plane, Farid Jahar landed at London's Heathrow Airport seven hours later as an anonymous immigrant.
As Farid traversed the English soil, the soft, amber hue of the streetlamps illuminated his path, and the unfading rays gave him the courage to seek asylum with his best friend from university. Soon, he had a home with Nora, who would become his wife, a home where he fixed his immovable wristwatch.
Farid shook his head again and exhaled softly, allowing the smoke to leave his mouth in a long, thin column. Slowly, he looked over at his messy desk and at what sat in the very middle — a wristwatch. This one was pale blue with silver hands; this one was for Nora. Farid walked over to his office chair, sat down, and carefully examined his delicate design — it was near perfection. He got up and peeked into the other room, hoping that his rising did not disturb Nora from her sleep, and with a twinge of masculine grace, he pressed his soft lips against her forehead. 
Farid returned to his office and took the watch in his large hands. With silent footsteps, he walked back to Nora's room, opened the door, and knelt beside her sleeping frame - so peaceful yet devoid of infectious joy for living. Farid hesitated as he reached for her wrist: was he risking her life? He guessed that her lifespan would be finite; nonetheless, her immortality kept her from experiencing everything worthwhile, and Farid laughed to himself about life itself. 
Thus, against the scientists' will but for God's grace and all that was still wonderful in this mortal world, Farid latched the pale blue wristwatch onto Nora's slender wrist. With that fluid motion, Farid released within her the true beauty of life. 
"Open your eyes," Farid whispered. 
Nora's once dull eyelids fluttered open. 
Her ocean eyes were delighted by a beacon of hope that had been long lost. She awoke from a coma that kept her soul captive for the past eight years; her body erupted from the graying shackles of perpetuity; she was more alive than she was when she couldn't die. 
She looked to Farid. He looked back at her with tearful eyes. 
"I've found you, Nora," Farid smiled, "I've found light…" 
Then, with outstretched arms, they reached for one another, and in that chasm of eternity that held them apart, time bent in their favor, drawing them ever closer into an enduring embrace. 
"I love you, Farid, my timekeeper." 
"I love you more, Nora, my light."