“Why?”
Marc hesitated.
“Because they’re interesting.”
Henri raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve called them obsolete for months.”
“I know.”
“And now they’re interesting?”
Marc smiled.
“People change.”
Henri looked at him.
Then he said, “Don’t put microphones near anything I’m working on without asking.”
Marc laughed.
“Deal.”
The recording began the following week.
Marc brought a portable audio recorder and two small microphones into the workshop.
Henri sat beside him, explaining which sounds came from which mechanisms.
He demonstrated the winding of a mainspring.
He showed how a balance wheel oscillated.
He let Marc record the quiet click of a ratchet wheel and the metallic ring of a small carriage clock.
Marc listened through headphones.
The sounds were delicate.
Precise.
Rhythmic.
He began hearing things he had overlooked all his life.
The tiny variation between two clocks.
The irregular scrape of a damaged gear.
The softness of a properly lubricated movement.
Henri watched him.
“Well?”
Marc removed the headphones.
“That’s actually incredible.”
Henri smiled.
“Actually?”
Marc groaned.
“Please don’t start.”
They worked for two hours.
Henri grew tired and rested.
Marc continued listening to the recordings.
When he returned upstairs, he began building a composition around the mechanical sounds.
He used a slow pulse derived from a regulator clock.
He layered delicate metallic textures.
He added a simple piano melody.
He did not tell Henri that the melody came from an old recording of Élise playing when she was seventeen.
Luc had sent him the recording after the hospital visit.
It was not a polished performance.
There were mistakes.
At one point, someone laughed in the background.
Élise laughed too.
Marc had listened to that recording more times than he could count.
He wanted to preserve the imperfections.
He wanted the music to sound like a room where someone had once been alive.
In December, Marc asked Henri to come upstairs after supper.
The sitting room lights were low.
A small speaker stood on the table.
Marc looked nervous.
“I finished something.”
Henri sat.
“A track?”
Marc nodded.
“Can you listen?”
Henri folded his hands.
“Of course.”
Marc pressed play.
The room filled with the faint sound of a clock being wound.
Then came the gentle pulse of a regulator mechanism.
A distant metallic click.
A low, warm tone.
And finally, a piano melody.
Henri sat very still.
He recognized it immediately.
Élise used to play that melody when she was young.
She had composed it herself, never bothering to write it down properly.
It was simple.
A little unfinished.
A phrase repeated twice, then changed.
Henri looked toward the speaker.
The melody continued.
Beneath it, the ticking grew quieter.
At one point, the recording included a small laugh.
Élise’s laugh.
Henri closed his eyes.
Marc watched him.
The track ended after four minutes.
Neither spoke.
Then Henri looked up.
“Where did you get that?”
Marc swallowed.
“Dad had an old recording.”
Henri nodded slowly.
“That was your mother.”
“I know.”
“She made that melody when she was seventeen.”
Marc looked surprised.
“Really?”
Henri smiled faintly.
“She was supposed to be practicing something else.”
Marc laughed.
Henri stared at the speaker.
Then he said, “Play it again.”
Marc did.
This time, Henri listened with his eyes open.
When it ended, he looked at his grandson.
“You made this?”
Marc nodded.
“Yes.”
Henri considered the question he had once asked in the kitchen.
Where are the instruments?
Now he understood that the answer had been more complicated than he was willing to hear.
He looked at Marc.
“It’s beautiful.”
Marc lowered his eyes.
“Thanks.”
Henri continued.
“I don’t understand how you made all of it.”
Marc smiled.
“I can show you.”
Henri nodded.
“I’d like that.”
They did not become two different people overnight.
Henri remained critical.
Marc remained impatient.
They still argued about dishes.
They still disagreed about money.
Henri continued believing that modern devices were designed to become obsolete.
Marc continued believing that some old objects deserved retirement.
But they learned to recognize when an argument was no longer about the thing being discussed.
Sometimes Henri’s criticism came from fear.
Sometimes Marc’s anger came from shame.
Sometimes they were simply tired.
They began speaking more openly about Élise.
Henri told stories Marc had never heard.
How she once dismantled an alarm clock because she wanted to make it ring at midnight.
How she had hidden a stray cat in her bedroom for three days.
How she cried when she failed a piano examination and then practised furiously until she passed the next one.
Marc asked questions.
Henri answered as best he could.
Luc contributed memories during visits.
Gradually, Élise became more than a photograph and the date of her death.
She became a person with habits, flaws, humour, and a life that had existed before Marc was born.
That mattered.
More than either man had expected.
One afternoon in January, Henri called Marc into the workshop.
The gold pocket watch lay on a soft cloth.
The cabinet stood open.
Marc stopped in the doorway.
For a moment, his body remembered the night of the argument.
