The Watchmaker's Season

Brass dust settles on the windowsill, a fine gold pollen that maps the light. His hands know the precise weight of a second, the microscopic tremor of a coiled spring.

Outside, the autumn wind strips the birch bare, leaves scattering like dropped seconds on the street. He adjusts his loupe, peers into the heart of a pocket watch that outlived its first owner.

Time is not a line, but a series of circles, wheels within wheels biting into each other. He winds the mainspring until it bites back, listening to the heartbeat of a brass and ruby heart.