 My name is Randolph, and I fix and clean watches. Yeah, most of the work I do are gaudy Rolexes set with gems in modern parts that keep accuracy to two seconds per day. The real pleasure of my work, though, is antiques. That's where I make my money and practice my craft. 200 year old timepieces with movements that have ticked out more seconds than any human body, every screw and gear handcrafted, every bit made to an unimaginable precision, considering the tools used. They've run for 200 years, and my job is to make them run for 200 more. Who cares if you mess up a modern Rolex? I just go to the bin and fish out a matching part, or at worst order from a catalog. These timepieces, the best you can do is hope to have an organ donor. Otherwise, you can find a fit or craft a new gear. But to what end? You've altered the essence of the object. How many gears can you replace and still have an 18th century watch? When does it become just an imitation? It was Monday morning, and I walked in late into my shop flipping the sign to open. People usually came by appointment anyway, and it was very likely that the door would not open until I stepped out to lunch. I pulled out my first patient, a 2015 chunk of gold, and almost began the cleaning. When I noticed something on the floor, it must have been put in through the mail slot. A ziplock bag with something carefully bubble wrapped inside, along with the protected package, were five crisp $100 bills. And to note, please fix this watch. It means the world to me. I know that you are a man who will appreciate and preserve the authenticity of my heirloom. I will pay anything else I owe when the job is done. I put down the bundle, put on my finger covers, and then open the bubble wrap. Inside was a standard sized pocket watch. In the first moment, it looked unassuming. But then 40 years of experience clicked together. This was old, perhaps early 15th century. Everything created outside of company and brand. A movement made by a watchmaker, gear by gear, pioneering the craft. On the painted white of the watch face, there was a second hand on its own dial. Maybe one of the first watches ever to have this feature. This wasn't something to drop through a mailbox. This was an artifact, a testament to human engineering. I closed the shop and pulled down the blinds covering all the windows. My heart was pumping, and I had to take two deep breaths and wipe sweat from my hands. I turned on my work lights, turned off my phone, and put on my jeweler's loop. Nothing was going to interrupt or distract me from this. The watch was in immaculate shape. It must have been cleaned by a professional every couple of years. The glass and the gold plated body were unscratched. I slowly and carefully did my diagnosis, and I quickly found the problem. The crown spun freely. Now this could mean some problem with the internal gears, but most of the time, for a watch this old, it was always the spring. I extracted the crown and the hands, started to open up the patient. I removed the back plate and stopped. There was a tiny piece of aged parchment inside the movement. I would have mistaken it for dirt if I wasn't wearing my loop. There was something written on it, and I had to place it under my microscope to read it. There an impossibly small yet perfectly elegant handwriting was written, please don't fix. I set the notice side like any other screw or gear. To me it was a communication across centuries, perhaps to keep other makers away from his secrets. Nothing to give mind in this day and age. After that, the world disappeared. I was absorbed in my work, and there was nothing else. The universe became only that which existed in the sight of the loop. Slowly, carefully, I worked my way gear by gear, plate by plate. In any moment I was terrified that I would hit a point where my knowledge or skill wasn't enough, that this 600 year old masterpiece would be too much for me. It never was though. Bit by bit, I made my way deeper and deeper into its heart, where knowledge failed, intuition took over. It was like a hand of the master who forged this, guided my hand, kept it steady, let me know just what to do, and then the mainspring barrel was open. I looked at the barrel and exhaled as I saw that the mainspring was snapped just like I hoped from the diagnosis. Springs are not like the rest of the watch. They have a finite number of wines before they go. It's like tires on a car. No matter how authentic your model team may be, you're not going to have a hundred year old tires. Rubber just doesn't work like that. This might now even be the second or third replacement in this watch. I took the spring out and I knew it was original. It was thick and revealed many days long gone. A handmade craftsmanship that somehow lasted longer than any modern counterpart. Still, all things had a lifetime. I took a new spring and fitted it in the barrel. Everything would just need a quick wash and then reassembly. I looked at the old spring. For a moment I fancied that the owner of the watch might not want it back. If I could keep it, it would be one of my most prized possessions. Maybe I could even find a master of craft that could reforge it. What a treasure it would be. I set it in a small box and went on to the more mundane tasks. It was the end of the day. Everything was clean and I was now doing assembly. Again, I felt an unseen hand telling me where to place every part and how tight to turn every screw. I held my breath as I returned the pallet and the balance wheel. The watch started to tick. I could feel my heartbeat synchronized to that glorious sound like a portal in time opened between me and the watchmaker of old. Two masters in the same room practicing a 600 year old craft. I finished the reassembly, feeling the sublime moment. There was a knock on the door. The shop was closed all day and it was now past the posted hours. Whoever it was, well, they could go away. I wanted a moment to myself and the watch. The door that I never locked opened with a ring. I spun around looking past the counter into the little part of the parlor meant for customers. A man stepped in, shutting the door behind himself hard. The bell on the door rang with the rudeness of the action. He wasn't very tall and had no features that would make him remarkable in any way. His suit was tailored. His wrist was empty. I'm sorry, we're closed. I said, trying to contain my frustration almost on autopilot. You are closed. His voice was sticky like honey. But not for me. I stared at him, feeling stupefied. This tangled in my brain like wet pasta. He stepped up to the counter, slid his hand into his jacket pocket and placed a few more clean hundreds down. I'm here for my watch. I take it it's ready. Uh, yes. I got out. I stepped back and lifted it from my workbench with a cloth. Gingerly, I placed it on the soft mat meant for displaying the finished cleaning. What if I don't give it to him? The thought ran through my mind. Maybe I should demand proof. What if this isn't the watch's owner? How could I know the owner? He snatched the watch the moment my hand was free from it. Without hesitation, he turned the crown, winding it up. Something's not right. He said softly. The bell on the door rang again. A woman in a red miniskirt walked in looking drunk and bewildered. Can I use the bathroom? She asked in an uncertain voice, almost as if she was no longer sure why she was here. Can't you see that we're closed? replied the man, raising his voice. I was sure I was about to say something, do something to regain control of the situation. This was my shop. He spun around to face her and slammed his hand on the door, shutting it violently again. This time, he turned the lock. I think the woman was about to protest. She seemed less bewildered than me, being locked in instead of out, no matter how rude someone might be. Then he grabbed her by the neck and dragged her to the ground. She may have tried to scream, but he held her windpipe closed. So all I heard were gargles. And then like flash paper, her body ignited and burned in an instant, leaving nothing behind. A curse and a blessing, said the man with a tone one might use apologizing for their dog. When I get hungry, they just come to me and I am so hungry. As I was saying, something is not right. I thought you were a man of the highest class, not one to use false parts. The spring. I was speaking to save my life. The spring broke. I continued, do you have it? Can you fix it? Yes. No, I don't know. He waited for me to say more. Their frail, they wear away. So do men give it to me. I walked to my workbench and lifted the little box. I could feel the heat of his eyes on my skull. How important was this thing? The heart of the watch was this his heart. This was a monster, a murderer. And I held his heart in my hand. No. I spoke quietly, but firmly. No. I could feel it beating in my hand, or was that my own pulse? I didn't see him leap the counter. It was just a blur. And then I was on the ground, my spine sending shocks throughout my body having hit the tile floor. Little man. He picked me up by my shirt and threw me. I went through a glass display case full of watches. I saw them crash to the ground. And then the pain came. I didn't know how many times I was stabbed or cut. It was one wave that worsened every heartbeat. I could see him walk over through a fog of red and lift the box with a spring from the ground. You think you have power? You think you have some control? He calmly circled to me around the shop, lifted me from the broken display, and dropped me sprawled on the old carpet. Then he looked at the watch. I like how you work, meticulous. He placed his foot on my left heel. You will do. I like to get it serviced every year. And then he pushed down. It was like a hydraulic press, slow and unrelenting. I heard my bones crack and what I felt before. That was not pain. That was my body telling me I was stabbed and bleeding. This was burning agony. I screamed. I screamed until my larynx tore. I screamed for mercy and prayed for death. Instead, somehow through the blinding white, I heard his voice. I am rather fond of my watch and you will clean and fix it as needed. I will pay you as I have, but if you do not do it without flaw, without substitute, I will take parts of you bit by bit. I will take parts until there is nothing left that is you. I lost the foot. The police found me. They pumped me with morphine and loaded me into the ambulance. The surgeons were proud they saved my life. I didn't argue the details. They saved most of my body, but they didn't save a man. The insurance paid the damages for the shop and to the customers, but no one could repair 30 years of my life. My name is Randolph and I fix watches. Sometimes a special customer comes in and I fix his. I find no joy in this, but it pays the bills. One day I'll be dead and I'll be replaced by another.