The Clockmaker's Hands

Brass shavings catch the slant of afternoon light, dust motes suspended in the quiet room where time is dismantled and measured out in tiny wheels, in hairsprings coiled like thought.

His fingers are thick but they move like water, sliding between the fragile gears with a practiced grace that belies their shape, finding the heartbeat hidden in the metal.

But the clock he builds will outlive him, ticking on mantels in rooms he will never see, while the hands that shaped it slowly stiffen, winding down their own quiet, unfixable spring.