He could hear the rain.
The falling parts box.
His grandfather’s gasp.
Henri noticed his hesitation.
“Come here.”
Marc approached.
Henri pointed at the watch.
“I’ve been thinking about what to do with it.”
Marc looked down.
“Okay.”
Henri continued.
“I still don’t want it sold.”
“Of course.”
“And I don’t want it repaired.”
Marc nodded.
Henri lifted the watch carefully.
“But perhaps I was wrong to keep its story locked away.”
Marc looked at him.
Henri held out the watch.
Marc hesitated.
“Grandpa…”
“Take it.”
Marc did not move.
Henri smiled faintly.
“I’m not asking you to sell it.”
Marc reached forward.
He took the watch in both hands.
It was heavier than he expected.
The gold case was warm from Henri’s palm.
He opened it.
Eight fifteen.
The hands remained still.
Henri watched him.
“I want you to look after it.”
Marc swallowed.
“Are you sure?”
“Yes.”
Marc examined the dial.
“What about what you said? Leaving it with Mum?”
Henri looked toward the window.
For a moment, he seemed to be listening to something far away.
Then he said, “I still want something of mine to remain with her.”
Marc waited.
Henri smiled sadly.
“But perhaps it doesn’t have to be buried.”
He looked at his grandson.
“Perhaps it can stay with someone who remembers us both.”
Marc’s eyes filled.
He closed the case carefully.
“I’ll keep it safe.”
Henri nodded.
“I know.”
For a long moment, they stood together in the workshop.
Then Marc asked, “Can I ask you something?”
Henri smiled.
“You usually do.”
Marc looked at the watch.
“Do you ever wish you’d started it again?”
Henri considered.
For nineteen years, he had treated the stopped hands as something sacred.
He had believed that allowing the watch to run would somehow diminish the moment it represented.
Now, looking at his grandson, he was less certain.
“Sometimes,” he said.
Marc looked up.
Henri continued.
“At first, I thought stopping it was the only thing I could do.”
He paused.
“But time didn’t stop for everyone else.”
Marc nodded.
Henri looked toward the workshop windows.
“Your mother would have hated seeing us waste so much of it arguing.”
Marc gave a small laugh through tears.
“Probably.”
Henri smiled.
“Definitely.”
Marc looked at the watch.
Then at his grandfather.
“Can I keep it stopped?”
Henri nodded.
“If you want.”
Marc closed his hand around the case.
“I think I do.”
Henri rested a hand on his shoulder.
“Then that’s your decision.”
Years later, when Marc had established himself as a working music producer, he kept the pocket watch inside a drawer beside his studio desk.
He never sold it.
He never wore it.
Occasionally, he opened the case and looked at the hands.
Eight fifteen.
They still did not move.
By then, Henri’s workshop had changed.
The old sign remained, but a younger watchmaker helped manage the repair business.
Henri worked fewer hours.
He sometimes sat by the window, drinking coffee and criticising the way people parked bicycles outside.
Marc visited whenever he could.
He brought groceries.
He repaired the studio’s old speakers.
He helped Henri organise invoices using a computer programme the watchmaker initially despised.
And on quiet afternoons, they listened to recordings.
Some were Marc’s.
Some belonged to Élise.
Some were old jazz records Henri had loved for decades.
The disagreements never disappeared completely.
But they became smaller.
Easier to repair.
One evening, Marc sat beside his grandfather at the kitchen table.
Rain tapped against the window.
The walnut clock above the door ticked steadily.
Henri looked toward it.
“It’s running fast.”
Marc glanced up.
“By how much?”
“Nearly thirty seconds.”
Marc smiled.
“Tragic.”
Henri gave him a look.
“Accuracy matters.”
Marc laughed.
He stood and fetched the small key from its hook.
Then he carefully opened the clock case.
Henri watched.
“Not too much.”
“I know.”
“You’ll damage the mechanism.”
“I know.”
“Turn it slowly.”
Marc looked over his shoulder.
“Grandpa.”
Henri raised an eyebrow.
“What?”
Marc smiled.
“I learned from the best.”
Henri considered this.
Then he settled back in his chair.
“Well,” he said, “that’s certainly true.”
Marc adjusted the clock.
He closed the case.
Then he returned to the table.
Henri poured him another cup of coffee.
Neither spoke for a while.
The clock continued ticking.
And somewhere upstairs, in a drawer beside a modern recording console, a gold pocket watch remained forever at eight fifteen.
But Marc no longer thought of it as a clock that had stopped because someone had died.
He thought of it as the object that had finally made two stubborn men speak about the woman they had both been missing.
The watch had stopped.
Their lives had not.
