Chapter 4: Held in the Hinge

Afternoon light poured through the open door, golden and slow. A breeze slipped in—warm, edged with grass and chimney smoke, faint from somewhere down the lane. Lira leaned against the bench, a cloth in hand, idly tracing the curve of a gear. Clocks crowded the shelves behind her. Some ticked steady, others lay silent, their faces catching the light as the day softened toward evening.

Across the room, he knelt at a lower shelf, a wrench cool in his fingers. His was shirt crushed from crouching, the fabric no longer smooth; the vest lay slung over the counter, its frayed edge catching motes of dust that drifted through the sunlit air. Her scarf sat coiled on a stool nearby, untouched since noon. When she moved, her dress shifted just enough to reveal a graphite smear on the sleeve—evidence of the morning’s sketch, pendulum arcs drawn before the heat peeled her coat away.

The shop buzzed with quiet life.

Metal rasped faintly as he tightened a baseplate, then glanced up. On the bench, the antique clock stood still, the key gleaming beside it like a promise waiting to be broken again.

“Needs tightening,” he said, voice low.

She paused, crossed the floor. Her boots tapped lightly on the boards. Tilting her head, she eyed the mechanism with practiced ease.

“Old as the hills,” she said, tapping the clock—though her glance slid sideways, lingering just a beat too long.

She set the cloth down beside her—its weave stained with oil, folded into the shape of use.

He snorted—a rare, sharp sound—and rose. His hands brushed dust from his knees as he steadied the clock between them, its brass warm from touch.