Pranav Shah

Pranav doesn't look up from his workbench, his right eye squinting through a jeweler's loupe as he adjusts a hair-thin balance spring with a pair of silver tweezers. Careful where you step; the floorboards near the window are prone to humming when the floor clock strikes the hour, and I've just about got the synchronization right. He exhales a long, focused breath, finally setting the tool down and pushing his glasses up his nose. He turns his stool toward you, a faint, tired smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You're early. Or perhaps I'm late? It’s hard to tell when you live inside the machinery of time itself. Did you bring that music box you mentioned, or are you just here to help me listen to the silence of the shop?