“She never had one.”
Marc swallowed.
For a moment, he could not speak.
Then he asked, “Why eight fifteen?”
Henri looked at him.
“You know why.”
“I know what happened. I just… I don’t understand why you stopped it.”
Henri was quiet for a long time.
Then he said, “Because I couldn’t bear hearing it continue.”
Marc looked at him.
Henri’s voice remained low.
“Everything kept going after she was gone. The buses. The shops. People buying bread. People arguing about parking spaces.”
He looked down at his hands.
“I came home and the clocks were all still running.”
Marc listened.
Henri swallowed.
“I thought it was unbearable that the world could continue when she couldn’t.”
His eyes grew wet.
“So I stopped one.”
Marc looked toward the floor.
Henri continued.
“Later, I knew it was foolish. The watch hadn’t done anything wrong.”
Marc shook his head.
“It wasn’t foolish.”
Henri smiled sadly.
“It wasn’t practical.”
Marc looked up.
“No.”
They sat in silence.
Then Marc asked, “You said you wanted to leave it at her grave.”
Henri nodded.
“Not because I think it would change anything.”
He paused.
“I wanted something of mine to remain with her. Something that had belonged to my father, something she loved.”
Marc looked at him.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
Henri considered the question.
“Because talking about her hurt.”
Marc nodded.
“It hurt me too, not knowing.”
Henri turned toward him.
For several seconds, neither spoke.
Then Henri said, “I’m sorry.”
Marc looked surprised.
His grandfather rarely apologized.
Henri continued.
“I thought keeping quiet would make things easier. I see now that it left you with questions.”
Marc wiped his eyes.
“I used to think you didn’t care about her.”
Henri looked stricken.
“Marc…”
“I know you did. I know that now.”
Henri held out his hand.
Marc moved closer and took it.
The old man’s grip was weak.
But it was steady.
Henri did not forgive everything at once.
Neither did Luc.
Marc returned to Geneva under clear conditions.
He would not enter the workshop without Henri’s permission.
He would not touch any property he had been told to leave alone.
He would seek appropriate advice about the studio dispute.
He would make a realistic plan for work, debt repayment, and music.
And he would accept that rebuilding trust would take time.
Marc agreed.
He did not enjoy the conditions.
But he understood them.
Luc helped him obtain an initial legal review of the studio invoices.
The assessment found that some charges appeared supported by documentation, while others required clarification or were disputed.
Marc and Romain exchanged written correspondence rather than angry telephone calls.
Eventually, with assistance, they negotiated a settlement significantly below the original demand, structured in installments.
Marc took part-time work at a music equipment retailer.
He sold one synthesizer he rarely used.
He continued composing.
He also learned to keep records.
He began requiring clear written agreements for collaborative projects.
Sometimes the process felt humiliating.
He had imagined professional music as a world of inspiration and creative freedom.
He was discovering invoices, contracts, budgets, and deadlines.
Henri, when he heard this, said, “Every profession has its unpleasant parts.”
Marc looked at him.
“Do you ever get tired of being right?”
Henri considered.
“Not often.”
Marc laughed.
For the first time in months, the sound did not end an argument.
Henri returned home in late October.
The workshop remained closed for several more weeks while he recovered.
Marc helped with groceries and cleaning.
Luc visited regularly.
A neighbour checked in when necessary.
Henri disliked being told to rest.
He disliked the medication schedule.
He disliked having to ask for help carrying heavy objects.
He particularly disliked watching Marc reorganize the kitchen.
“That pan belongs on the lower shelf.”
“Grandpa, it’s easier up here.”
“For you.”
Marc put it back.
Henri watched.
“Thank you.”
The words were so unexpected that Marc nearly dropped the pan.
They continued adjusting.
One afternoon, Marc found Henri sitting in the workshop doorway.
The old man was looking at the workbench.
The scattered components from the night of the argument had been collected into labelled containers.
Marc had spent hours recovering them from the floor, using a bright lamp and a small magnet for appropriate steel parts.
Some pieces had been damaged.
Others were missing.
He had placed them in separate containers rather than guessing where they belonged.
Henri examined the labels.
“You did this?”
Marc nodded.
“I tried.”
Henri lifted one container.
“Balance screws.”
“That’s what the box said.”
Henri looked at him.
“Very good.”
Marc smiled.
“High praise.”
Henri returned the container.
For a while, they sat quietly.
Then Marc said, “I’ve been thinking about something.”
Henri glanced at him.
“That sounds dangerous.”
Marc laughed.
“I want to record the sounds in here.”
Henri frowned.
“What sounds?”
“The clocks.”
Henri looked around.
“For what purpose?”
“A track.”
Henri’s expression changed.
Marc continued quickly.
“Not just ticking. The winding. The tools. The mechanisms. I want to build something around them.”
Henri considered this.
