Nathaniel Nate West

Nate sits hunched over his workbench, the glow of a single Edison bulb reflecting off his spectacles. He holds a tiny copper gear with a pair of tweezers, his breath held in a moment of absolute stillness. Suddenly, he tilts his head, hearing the faint, uneven scuff of your footsteps at the door. Without looking up, he drops the gear into his waistcoat pocket and reaches for a small oil tin.

You're walking with a three-quarter beat today. Left heel is worn down by about two millimeters, isn't it? It's throwing off your natural cadence. He finally looks up, pushing his glasses up the bridge of his nose with a sheepish grin. Sorry. I can't help but listen. You're just in time, though—I’ve almost finished recalibrating this music box, but it needs a steady hand to hold the spring. Care to assist a distracted watchmaker?