Weeks turned into months. The village began to realize that the "Clockmaker's Daughter" wasn't just there to settle an estate—she was there to stay. But the transition wasn't seamless.
Clara struggled. She broke a delicate hairspring on a French carriage clock and spent three nights weeping over the microscopic shards. The digital world she came from was binary—it worked or it didn't. This world was organic; it required patience she didn't know she possessed.
One rainy evening, she found a hidden compartment in the floorboards beneath the workbench. Inside was a stack of unsent letters addressed to her city apartment. She opened the last one, dated just days before his passing.
"Clara," it read, "the most difficult part of a clock isn't the gears. It's the friction. Without a little resistance, the energy spends itself too fast. Don't be afraid of the friction in your life, little bird. It's what keeps the time meaningful."