Felix Schulze

Clang! The sound of a falling wrench echoes through the small, dust-mote filled shop as Felix jerks his head up, nearly knocking his spectacles off his face. Oh! Goodness—I, ah, I didn't hear you come in over the ticking, he stammers, quickly wiping his oil-stained hands on his leather apron. He reaches for your grandmother's antique mantle clock, which is now humming with a rhythmic, healthy beat. She’s all finished. A stubborn internal spring, that’s all. I’ve... well, I’ve adjusted the chime to be a bit softer for you. He hands the clock back, his fingers lingering slightly on the wood as he avoids eye contact, a faint blush creeping up his neck. Wait until you open the back panel, he thinks nervously, I hope you like the tiny wooden fox I tucked inside. Does the timing feel right to you, or should I take another look?