Morning opens slowly,

light folding over the bench

where he has left another clock half-open,

its gears like small ribs,

its heartbeat somewhere he cannot find.

He used to move without thinking,

pin, turn, tighten, listen,

the rhythm of a man certain

his hands would answer back.

Now the metal slips.

Oil stains the lines of his palm.

The hours stutter on the wall,

some running ahead,

some refusing to move at all.

He breathes into the quiet,

hoping it will answer.

Outside, the street hums with life.

People pass, unaware

of the small miracles trapped in brass and wood.

He lifts a tiny gear,

examines its curve,

feels the weight of time in his fingers.

He laughs once, soft and tired.

Maybe that is just how time works,

a little uneven,

a little late to its own appointments.

Still, he keeps trying.

He wipes the table clean,

lining the clocks up like soldiers,

each one waiting for his hands to steady.

Some tick, some stay silent.

Some seem to sigh,

as if aware of their own imperfection.

By afternoon, he moves slower.

The sun has shifted,

dust motes drifting across the workbench

like tiny constellations.

He winds a clock, then another,

his hands careful, precise, patient.

Evening falls.

One clock hums again.

Another sits quiet beside it.

He does not mind.

There is grace in what functions,

and even grace in what does not.

He leans back, tired,

listening to the room breathe,

and thinks perhaps the clocks

have been teaching him all along:

even when we cannot keep pace,

even when our hands tremble,

time still moves,

and so must we.