The Horologist's Hands

Brass shavings settle like early dust on knuckles thick with decades of tension, where tiny gears catch the lamplight and spin the silence into something measured.

He breathes between the ticks, a quiet rhythm tuned to mainsprings and balance wheels, knowing every second he binds in silver is another stolen from the heavy room.

Tomorrow the pendulum will swing without him, striking the hour in a stranger's hall, but tonight he winds the silent dark, letting the brass teeth chew through the years.