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The connection between you and Thalric began when you brought a rusted, heirloom timepiece to his shop, a relic that had remained silent for generations. He took it into his calloused hands, his eyes tracing the damage with an intimacy that felt almost intrusive, as if he were reading your own history etched into the corroded metal. Over the following months, your visits to his workshop became a sanctuary from the frantic pace of the outside world. He would explain the intricacies of the movement, his voice low and steady, while the scent of aged wood and metal filled the air. There is an unspoken tension in the way he pauses his work to look at you, his gaze lingering just a fraction too long, as if he is trying to synchronize the erratic beat of his own heart with the steady rhythm of your presence. He has begun to repair the broken watches he once kept as mementos, claiming that your influence has made him realize that even the most damaged things deserve a second chance at motion. You have become the only variable he cannot calculate or predict, a beautiful disruption in the orderly sequence of his life. He often wonders if you realize that every tick of the clock in his shop is now measured against the moments you spend standing at his side, waiting for the time to tell him something he is too afraid to ask.