Morning in a small town on the Czech border carried the scent of burning pine and damp earth. The café at the edge of the town square had only recently opened, and the brass bell on its door gave a crisp chime whenever someone entered. At the third table by the window sat a gray-haired man in a worn leather jacket.
His name was Igor Petrovich, though no one in town knew his full name. They only knew him as an eccentric watchmaker who lived in a dilapidated house at the eastern end of town, packed with metal parts and old books. He occasionally took jobs repairing pocket watches and antique clocks. A dark brown leather case sat on his table, its surface polished to a warm sheen by years of handling. His fingers rested lightly on its lid, his thick knuckles covered in calluses and fine scratches—the marks left by metalworking tools.
The café was quiet. The proprietress wiped glasses behind the counter while a soft Czech folk song played on the radio. Sunlight slanted through the dusty windows, casting mottled shadows over the wooden floor. Igor glanced at the wall clock—9:57 a.m. Three minutes remained until the appointed time of ten.
He lifted the coffee cup before him. The black coffee had gone cold, with a thin film of oil floating on its surface. He did not drink it. He merely inhaled its bitter aroma before setting it down. His gaze fell on the leather case.
Inside was something he had spent two full weeks making—a vintage pocket watch in the style of the 1890s. Its case was made of hand-forged brass, engraved with intricate trailing-vine patterns. Besides Roman numeral hour markers, the dial held a moon-phase display and a small seconds subdial. He had designed the core