As the man set down his teacup, a small smile crept over his face. While the workshop was not warm, it did not have the blistering autumn winds that howled down the outdoor market alley, funneled and focused by the concentration of booths on either side. And the tea was good, soothing, comforting.
The watchmaker was still bent over the timepiece, his hands making adjustments that resulted in tiny movements at the ends of his calipers and tweezers and other small instruments of the trade.
The man looked down at his cup, nearly empty, and gazed at the pattern of leaves on the bottom.
“It looks like you might be mistaken. I may require another cup.” The man’s voice was chiding, not aggressive, and the watchmaker looked up amused. His eyes twinkled for a second before he trust his head down onto the timepiece, finding its voice, its song.
From this position, he spoke plainly to the man. “I am not often mistaken, and it’ll take a trickier watch than this.” He lifted his head and, in a final triumphant move, snapped the back onto the watch.
Tick. Tick. Tick. Tick.
The ticking still seemed irregular but it was undoubtedly louder.
“Do you hear it?” the watchmaker asked. The two men sat in silence for a half minute or so, the watchmaker looking eagerly at the larger man who’s face was crinkled in concentration. Finally, the man shook his head. No, he didn’t hear it.
“Ah, well, it’s a bit archaic. Not used much anymore because it takes such a long time to say anything. But it’s telling me right now that your name is Leonard Kinsman. And that I’m to give you…”
The watchmaker trailed off, his face turning to confusion. He looked down at the watch, then back at the man. “That can’t be right,” he blurted. He immediately looked ashamed at having said it, as if he had stepped outside the bounds of his purpose in this exchange.
“Do you know why you came to me?” he finally asked, after an awkward silence. The other man was glad to have a question to answer, glad that he had not needed to provide words to fill the silence.
“No. I was just told that I had to deliver this watch to you, and only you. And that you would tell me what to do next.” Even this brief sentence exhausted the man, and a look of fear began to enter his face. He had so little knowledge and so little experience in these matters – or in most matters, for that matter – that he had felt lost every step of the way.
He had trouble finding the market alley, even though it was one of the busiest streets in the city. He had not wanted to attract attention by asking other shopkeepers about the watchmaker, so he had wandered around aimlessly, looking for the telltale sign hanging above the workshop window. He had been told that time – expecting that which the watch he carried told – was unimportant, but he was now worried that he had come too late, too early, too on-time.
The watchmaker, with more experience than he wanted, understood the man’s fear and said, “There’s no need to worry. It’s just that…” He trailed off again and thought. “It’s just that you’ve become a very important man.”
