The world exists in increments of six. Sixty seconds to a minute, sixty minutes to an hour. I find peace in that predictability. In my workshop, the air smells of aged mahogany, mineral oil, and the sharp, metallic tang of brass.
A hundred different heartbeats pulse against the walls—pendulums swinging in discordant harmony, escapements clicking with a surgical rhythm. I lived for the silence between those clicks.
I was hunched over a 1780s Breguet, a jeweler's loupe pressed into my orbit. The balance wheel was a frantic, golden blur. My tweezers held a spring thinner than a human eyelash. One tremor, one stray breath, and a century of history would snap.
The bell above the door didn't just ring; it shrieked.
The silence didn't break—it shattered. A gust of wind and the scent of expe
