Chapter 2: A Dent in Time

The sun cut a slant across the workbench, sharp and low, stirring dust that danced like memory in its path. He woke to it, the light tracing creases in his sleeves, warm where it touched, cool where it did not. The shop held its hush. Shelves loomed with clocks—some ticking faintly, others paused in quiet surrender. Their faces dulled with waiting, their glass catching morning’s glow in brief, uncertain flashes.

Lira sat by the window. Her pencil scratched in time with the hush, sketching a face he hadn’t asked her to draw. Curved lines, delicate numerals, notations spilled from her hand in a rhythm that matched the light. She did not glance at him.

He stood. The vest hung loose. He crossed to the counter and sifted a tray of gears with fingers made for this work—quiet, steady, calloused smooth. Brass edges clicked faintly as he turned each piece. The scent of oil and old wood wrapped the morning, grounding him in the bones of the shop. The clock from the estate sale lingered in his thoughts, its weight a second pulse beneath his own. The key still rested in his pocket. Warm. Waiting.

“Early,” he said.

She looked up. Her pencil stilled mid-curve. A flicker of light caught in her gaze—steadier than the dawn, though just as soft.

“Couldn’t stay away,” she replied, setting the sketch aside on the stool’s worn edge. The paper curled slightly. Graphite smudged her fingertips.

She rose. Her boots thudded gently across the floorboards. She picked up a hammer he’d left askew, its head dull in the light. A practiced motion set it straight. No wasted movement. No fuss. She’d learned the shop’s rhythm in months—more than some did in years.

He watched her. Her presence worked into the day like oil into gear teeth—quiet, necessary, near.

He reached into his pocket and drew out the key. Brass flashed—a small sun flare across the bench.

“Found something,” he said.

He fit it to the clock and turned it, smooth as breath.

The air changed.

A creak rose—sharp, bright as a snapped thread—and the shop rewound. He stood again at the bench, the key untouched in his hand. Lira sat by the window, pencil poised. The hammer lay where it had been before. Her sketch was half-done, lines trailing to stillness.

She blinked.

Then stood.

Boots whispered against the floor as she crossed the room, eyes fixed on the clock, on him. “What was that?” she asked. The question leaned forward, curious and close. The brass casing caught morning light and refused explanation.

“Fifteen minutes,” he said. His voice was even. She could draw the rest.

Her brow furrowed, smoothed. Her gaze lit—sharp with wonder. She reached for the key. Her fingers brushed his wrist—brief, hot as a struck spark.

“Show me,” she said.

He handed it to her.

Their hands met in passing—a warmth not held, but noted.

She turned it without hesitation. The clock gave. Time broke.