A Matter of Springs

The mechanical ticking of an old brass watch on the low table drew my attention. I stepped up close, leaning my broadsword against the rim of a ceramic mug to inspect it. Its winding stem was stuck midway. With a measured press of my gloved thumb against the crown, I nudged the internal gear teeth into alignment until a rhythmic pulse resumed. Precision like that takes patience. It reminded me of long road stops, just listening to engines cool down.