“Five ‘ours it will take, I reckon. I’ll charge you thirty for the service and fifty for the parts.” The magnifying lens made his muddy eyes bulbous, beetle-like and curious. He was enraptured by the watch, glued to the metal with a practised eye, while his gnarled, liver-spotted hands were gentle with the tarnished brass.

“Fifty quid seems a bit steep for parts,” I said. The lint in my wallet stared back at me.

His head jerked up, “Can’t be ‘elped darl. I ‘aven’t seen a watch like this in a long time, gotta get stuff out of storage to fix this.” His voice was a tumble of rocks, and his bushy eyebrows creased when he held the piece out to me.

I didn’t take it.

I hadn’t even looked at it for at least five years; it sat in the bottom of the third draw in the kitchen next to the whisk. It was a small thing, its face was blank; only one small golden stripe marked twelve o’clock. The hands were delicate spindles that curled from the middle in golden spirals.

“Alright, just...” the sigh snuck from my lips, the little traitor, “give me a moment.” That week was going to be a lentils week according to my miserly bank account.

“So ‘oose watch is this?” the man asked, rolling tools out on the wooden benchtop.

“It was my grandfather’s,” I said.

“Ah,” the man looked up, eyes droopy and his jowls all a-wobble. “Sorry for your loss.”

“It was a long time ago. We weren’t very close. I guess I’ll be back in five hours?” I knew my smile was tight.

“Yes, yes.” The man was distracted with his tiny tools, which waved half-heartedly, as if bidding me farewell. I turned on my heel and walked through the shop, admiring the sundry remnants of time and its pieces mounted upon rows of shelves—all ticking in harmony with my strides.

A whisper of “Slowly slowly catchy monkey” hissed along the air, and I turned to the man who was hunched over the table like a crooked hook, the watch clicking under his ministrations.

“What was that?”

“Seen this before?” he held the watch out again, his hands shaking.

Curiosity got the best of me. I ambled back and looked at the latch he had opened from the dented back. Inside was a tiny photograph, tinged brown and yellow with age, of a young man in uniform. There was a smile hinting at his lips, but he didn’t look at the camera—his gaze focused out of the frame.

“I haven’t... may I?” I extended my hand to take the watch, the cool metal smooth against my fingertips.

“Pretty rare design here,” he peered down at the watch. “See this engravin’ here... bit clumsy but the words are clear: ‘Never falter, never fall my silver linin’’. Looks like there was someone your grandfather was rather fond of.”

“Looks like it.”