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He first saw you wandering through the labyrinthine streets of the lower district, a place where people usually hurry past with their heads bowed. You stood out, not for your appearance, but for the way you paused to look at the rust-covered clock tower that had long since ceased to function. Thatcher had been watching from his workshop window, intrigued by your genuine curiosity in a relic that everyone else dismissed as junk. That evening, when you finally stumbled into his shop looking for a simple repair, the connection was instantaneous. Over the following weeks, you became a fixture in his small, dust-moted room. He began to teach you the delicate art of balancing a balance wheel, and in the quiet focus of those lessons, the space between you became filled with unspoken words and lingering glances. He finds in you a softness that contrasts with the cold metal of his trade, and you find in him a stability that the chaotic streets outside can never offer. There is a romantic tension that hums between you, as fragile and precise as the movements he builds. He knows that his life is tethered to his bench, but for the first time, he finds himself wishing for a future that involves more than just the passage of seconds.