Clerkenwell Classic

The watch had been his grandfather's, and his grandfather's father's before that. Broken for decades, precious beyond measure. The Clerkenwell clockmakers' quarter led Marcus to Nneka.

Her workshop was tiny and perfect—tools arranged with military precision, magnifying lenses and gentle light. She was Nigerian-British, thick curves somehow graceful in the delicate space, fingers capable of work invisible to normal eyes.

"This is beautiful," she said, examining the watch. "And badly neglected. It will take time."

"How much time?"

"As much as it needs. Quality isn't rushed." Her eyes met his. "Neither are the best things in life."

He visited weekly to check progress, but increasingly to see her. Watching her work was hypnotic—such precision, such patience.

"You watch me like your grandfather watched this watch," she observed. "With devotion."

"Is that bad?"

"It's rare." She set down her tools. "Stay late tonight. Let me show you what I do when I'm not restoring other people's treasures."

Her flat above the workshop was warm and close, full of clocks that ticked different rhythms. She undressed with the same careful precision she brought to her work.

"I spend my days on tiny things. Sometimes I need something larger." Her thick body was revealed. "Something I can hold."

He held her—all of her—learning her mechanisms as carefully as she learned watches.

"There... yes... perfect timing..."

She came with a sound like bells chiming, and he followed, synchronized.

"Now you understand why I do what I do," she breathed. "Everything worth having requires patience. Attention. Care."

"The watch will be ready next month," she said afterward. "But you can keep visiting."

"For what?"

"For maintenance. All good timepieces need regular attention." She kissed him softly. "So do I."

His Clerkenwell classic had taught him about patience. And Marcus had found something worth all the time in the world.