But for the first time, Jack felt something the cuckoo never gave him: warmth.

Jack put her hand over his heart. “It broke,” he said. “Now I have a real one.”

That night, Jack sat on his bed, listening to the tick-tock-tick-tock inside his chest. He decided to fix himself. He took a screwdriver from his father’s toolbox and carefully opened the little door. Inside, among brass gears and a tiny coiled spring, sat the cuckoo bird on its perch.

She didn’t run away. But she didn’t stay, either. She just smiled sadly and said, “Jack, you have a beautiful clock. But I need a heart that bleeds.”