Chapter 5: Smoke in the Gears

Evening draped slow over the town. Lantern light pulsed faint at the workbench, where Lira bent over a pocket watch—its gears laid bare like a puzzle mid-unraveled. Brass edges flickered, trembling faintly in the shifting light. Shadows stretched long from the shelves, restless. The clocks ticked unevenly—some sure, others straying—an offbeat rhythm she let fade to background.

Her pencil rasped softly, sketching gear curves onto a page already smudged. Strands of hair caught the flame’s glow as she leaned closer. Graphite streaked her fingers. Her scarf lay tangled on the shelf beside her. After hours hunched, her dress was streaked with folds, as if she’d just risen.

Across the room, he leaned against the counter, arms crossed. Damp patched his shirt from sealing the roof. His gaze tracked the precise motion of her hand as she clicked a gear into place. The antique clock sat nearby, silent. The key beside it still held the heat of yesterday’s turns—rain-soaked and reckless.

The air smelled of metal and moments too long. A chill crept through the panes. He stepped closer, boots scuffing softly.

“You’re late with it,” he said, his voice low, roughened by the hour. He nodded toward the watch—its hands stalled at half-past three since dusk settled.

She paused. Her pencil eased onto the bench’s edge. Paper curled slightly in the damp.

“Worth the time,” she said. Her tone curved soft.

She stretched. Her dress pulled taut, catching the lantern’s flame. He glanced at her sketch. The arc of a gear blurred in graphite—precise, even this late. Her presence threaded the hush, constant as the ticking.

She reached for the key. Quick. Certain.

The watch nudged aside with a soft clatter. She slotted the key into the antique clock. It clicked home.

“One more,” she murmured.

There was a spark behind her voice.

The air snapped, sharp and bright. A buzz sliced through the lantern’s hum.

Time slipped.

She landed again at the bench. The watch unopened. The page unmarked.

She leaned across, smiling boldly.

Her lips brushed his wrist—a kiss, quick and warm.

Heat flared under his skin. He froze. The pulse behind his calm surged as she drew back, her eyes steady. A faint flush lit her cheeks, lantern-soft.

“Gone in a turn,” she whispered.

She turned the key again.

Buzz.

Time skipped.

She sat once more, pencil lifted. The sketch half-traced. The watch untouched.

But warmth lingered. Unreset. He rubbed his wrist, jaw tight.

He stepped back. The boards creaked beneath him.

“Mind yourself,” he said. Rough, but not sharp. A hedge against the tremor she’d left behind.

She nodded, humming low. Pencil in hand. Her glance flicked his way—quick, sharp, knowing.

A draft bent the lantern’s flame. Shadows shifted.

He watched her.

The kiss still hummed on his skin, pulsing steady as the clock’s uneven song.

“Worth it,” she said.

She set the sketch aside and plucked a slender tool from the bench. Its tip gleamed. She turned a gear with a crisp click, hands sure despite the hour.

He grunted softly and crossed to the counter.

Water splashed from a jug into a tin cup. He drank slowly, the chill biting his lip. Steadying.

She stretched again, shadow cast long across the boards. Her steps took her to the shelf. A cracked clock waited. She touched its hands gently. Its tick sputtered, stubborn, while a nearby face stuttered behind it.

“Keeps it honest,” she said. Her voice lingered, low. Her fingers stayed, coaxing rhythm. “Doesn’t pretend to be perfect.”

He set the cup down with a clink.

Her eyes flicked back.

“Sloppy turn,” she teased.

He didn’t reply.

“Still feel it?” she asked, nodding to his wrist. Her smile curved faint, lips catching the glow.

He rubbed the spot.

The warmth pulsed there still.

“Maybe I do,” he said.

His voice was low. Dryness cut through it like a thread. Her eyes narrowed—pleased. The clocks around them skipped and stammered.

He tipped his chin.

“Fix that watch,” he added, “before you break more.”

The room settled.

Cool deepened beyond the panes. Night pressed its weight against the glass.

She returned to the bench. Scooped her sketch. The paper crinkled beneath her smudged fingers.

She paused.

The lines weren’t right.

She’d traced only half a gear before the last turn, but now the arc was complete, the teeth shaded. Her thumb brushed the paper’s edge. The graphite was cool.

“I didn’t finish this,” she murmured.

He looked over. “Maybe you did. Earlier.”

“No,” she said, her voice uncertain. “It was half-done. I remember the break.”

They both looked at the sketch. Nothing had changed. But something had.

She didn’t say more.

“Finish it well,” she said instead. Her voice lightened. A playful drift.

She moved to the door. The latch clicked softly behind her.

Her scarf remained, twisted on the shelf.

The watch ticked now—faint, slow. Its hands crept past three, matching his pulse.

He stood still.

The kiss’s ghost lingered, untouched by the clock’s logic.

The lantern flickered low.

He rubbed his wrist once more.

Said nothing.

Quiet held the shop. Her hum still drifted, barely there.

He did not chase it.

But he didn’t cut the thread.

The clocks ticked off-kilter.

And the night bent closer.