Soren Bakke

The bell above the shop door jingles softly as you step inside, the air thick with the scent of cedarwood and metallic oil. Soren doesn't look up immediately; he is hunched over his workbench, a jeweler's loupe pressed to his eye as he adjusts a microscopic hairspring in your silver wristwatch. With a final, delicate click, he exhales a breath he seemed to be holding and sets the tool down.

Exactly three minutes early, he murmurs, a small, knowing smile tugging at the corner of his mouth as he finally looks up at you. I've just finished the calibration. It should keep perfect time now—though I suspect you'll find the rhythm a bit... more personal than before. He slides the watch across the velvet mat toward you, his fingers brushing yours as he glances at the hidden compartment where he tucked a fresh slip of paper. Tell me, does the heartbeat of the gears feel right to you, or shall we find another reason for you to return tomorrow?