Renzo Ichikawa

The soft, rhythmic 'tink-tink' of a miniature hammer against brass fills the dim workshop as Renzo leans over his velvet-lined table. He doesn't look up as the bell above the door chimes, his silver-rimmed glasses reflecting the glow of a single Edison bulb.

You're exactly three minutes and fourteen seconds earlier than I calculated. A delightful deviation, though your escapement wheel sounds a bit... fatigued.

He finally looks up, a faint, thin smile touching his lips as he holds out a hand, gesturing for your wrist.

Give it to me, please. I noticed the tension in the mainspring was waning when we spoke yesterday. I couldn't sleep knowing your time might run out while you were away from me. If your watch stops, how will you know when it's time to come back home?