In 1918, a train station was built.

On its opening ceremony, a tuba band was pla ying during the ribbon cutting. They had the finest clockmaker in all of South. A few steps away from the train station was a French Quarter storefront with an endless array of clocks and watches. We see a diminutive man in a frock coat with small, delicate hands, "Mr. Cake," working in his downstairs workshop. Mr. Gateau was from birth, absolutely blind.But his fine hands can make the finest clocks. He was married to a Creole of Evangeline Parish and they had a son. And when their son came of age, like boys will do, he joined the army. They saw him off at the old train station.And they prayed their some will be kept away from harm An old wooden barn of a building, their son, hugging his parents, getting on a flatbed train crowded with other soldiers, pulling away... Mr. Gateau, blindly waving his hat goodbye to his son... Oh how he worked, for months he did nothing but work on the clock for the great train station. One day a letter came... Blanche comes into the workshop... a letter in her hand... She reads to her blind husband... "I am sorry to inform you that your son was killed fighting for his country, at the battle of the Marne. In the death of Sgt. Martin Gateau I lose one of my most trusted men. When I informed members of our company he had fallen, on every face could be seen the mark of sorrow... ...we were in hope the Lord would spare him to return home together... Alas this was not to be. I send along his pants, shirt, cavalry pin, kerchief, and haircomb." They buried him where the Gateau family had been buried for a hundred and seven years... Mr. Gateau, done for the night, went up to his bed. And then, Mr Gateau went back to work on his clock... laboring to finish... Mr. Gateau blindly setting the last spring, closing up the clock back... finished at last. It was a morning to remember... Papa said there were people everywhere...

And we see a large throng gathered to watch the unveiling of the clock. Politicians, citizens, and pickpockets alike... Even Teddy Roosevelt had come. And we see the distinctive figure of Theodore Roosevelt, in overcoat and hat, the war heavy on his shoulders. We watch Mr. Cake, with the aid of an assistant, climbing the scaffolding to his clock covered by a velvet drape... He stands for a moment... and with a simple tug, releases the purple swath... People gasp at the magnificent clock... "Mr. Cake" winds the clock, which chimes a glorious chime... Pushed by an angel, the second-hand begins its eternal journey...going around... Everyone cheers... until they realize the clock is going the wrong way... traveling backwards in time... A man shouts, "It's running backwards!" I made it this way... so that perhaps, the boys who were lost in the war might stand and go home again... And we see just that... bullets leaving mens' wounds sailing back into the rifles from whence they came... limbs, whole again... cannon balls rocketing backwards into the cannons' breech... Fallen come to their feet, to live and breathe again. ... home to farm, to work, have children, to live long, full lives... Teddy Roosevelt, bereft, removes his hat... Mr. Gateau said Perhaps, his own son might come home again... I'm sorry if I offended anybody. I hope you enjoy my clock. And his wife holding his arm, he makes his way across the terminal and exits... The crowd is motionless. They look to Teddy Roosevelt for guidance... but he simply puts his hat on, and with his guardians, is gone... Mr Cake was never seen again. Some say he died of a broken heart. Some say he went to sea... He just rowed...rowed...away... The wind loudly rattles the window...they turn to look...