For the next two weeks, Isolde became a permanent fixture in my workshop. She didn't bring broken watches anymore; she brought "problems." A music box that played too fast. A pendulum clock that swung too wide. A tiny, gold snuffbox with a hinge that "felt wrong."
Each item was perfectly functional. Each was a pretext.
I tried to maintain my boundaries. I tried to return to the solitude of my craft. But the workshop no longer felt like a sanctuary; it felt like a waiting room. Every time the bell chimed, my heart leaped into a rhythm that no clock could replicate.
One rainy Tuesday, she arrived wearing a dress of sheer black lace that left nothing to the imagination. She didn't bring an object. She simply walked to the center of the room, stopped, and began to undress.
"What are you do
