Elias didn't just fix clocks; he listened to them. To him, the rhythmic thrum of a brass gear was the heartbeat of a home. But when Elias passed away in late autumn, the heartbeat of his small workshop stopped too.
His daughter, Clara, stood in the center of the room, surrounded by hundreds of frozen pendulums. She hadn't spoken to her father in five years—not since she moved to the city to pursue a life of digital speed and glass towers. Now, the silence was an indictment.
On his workbench sat a single, unfinished pocket watch with a note: "For Clara. To find the time we lost." She picked it up, but the internals were a hollow mess of disconnected springs. It felt like her chest—empty and out of sync.