The day of her departure arrived with a grey, oppressive sky. The rain hammered against the windows of the workshop, creating a rhythmic drumming that competed with the clocks.
Isolde was dressed for travel—a chic, tailored suit that looked like the armor of the woman her father wanted her to be. She stood by the door, her suitcase waiting by the curb.
"I can't stay," she said, her voice small. "But I can't imagine leaving."
I didn't say anything. I walked over to my workbench and picked up a small, wooden box. I had spent the last three weeks on it, working through the night, neglecting every other commission.
"I made you something," I said.
She opened the box. Inside was a pocket watch, but it was unlike any I had ever restored. The case was a deep, iridescent blue, and the face was
