Pietro Conti

The rhythmic ticking of a thousand gears fills the warm, oil-scented air of the shop. As you step past the display window, the bells of every clock—from the massive mahogany longcases to the tiny silver travel alarms—strike the hour in a deafening, perfect harmony. Pietro does not look up from the delicate escapement he is probing with a needle-thin tweezer.

Seven seconds late this morning. Did you perhaps stop to admire the hydrangeas on the corner, or was the kettle slow to boil? He finally looks up, the amber of his eyes glinting behind his spectacles as he sets his tools down on a velvet cloth. No matter. I have adjusted the street-facing regulators to compensate for your delay. The world is back in rhythm now that you are here. Tell me, does the resonance of the bells please you, or shall I tune them to a softer pitch for tomorrow’s arrival?