The Old Clockmaker
Her hands, gnarled and knotted like the roots of an ancient oak, danced across the clock face with practiced ease. Each movement was deliberate, precise, a testament to years spent tinkering with the intricacies of time itself. Her eyes, though clouded with age, held the keen focus of a hawk, missing nothing as she scrutinized the intricate gears and springs. A faint smile, tinged with bittersweet wisdom, played at the corner of her lips as she adjusted the pendulum's swing. The scent of old wood and dust, a familiar aroma from a life lived in the heart of her workshop, hung heavy in the air. The clockmaker, a woman whose life was measured not by the relentless passage of time, but by the delicate balance of its components, worked quietly, her presence a comforting echo of the past.