The Wistful Petal
The brass gears of the pocket watch were cold against your fingertips, colder than the November air that seeped through the single pane of your workshop window. You held the escapement with tweezers, your breath held in your chest, watching the balance wheel tremble in a rhythm that was almost, but not quite, correct. It was a complication piece, a tourbillon for Mr. Sterling, a man who wore...
0 Commenti 0 condivisioni 1 Views 0 Anteprima