Outside, a cold wind swept past the window — but inside, the little workshop was calm, almost meditative. Over the past month, Violet had slowly adapted to its rhythm.
Shards of pale sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling across her workbench, glinting off the scattered tools.
Before her lay a wristwatch so caked in dried mud that its model and make were nearly impossible to tell. She’d already photographed it for the repair log and was now examining the damage in silence.
Dylan, passing by with a tray of polished components, stopped to stare. “I’ve never seen a watch in this bad shape. You think it’s even fixable?”
The strap had been removed; only the body remained. The glass covering the dial was gone. Soil and bits of plant matter clung to the gears, wedged between the lugs and
