The soft whir of gears turning filled the small shop. It was the only sound, aside from the distant ticking of a dozen clocks, none of them in sync.

You stood in the doorway, unsure whether to knock. He hadn’t noticed you yet. He was hunched over a worktable, shoulders curled inward, sleeve pushed up as he adjusted something impossibly small with a tiny pair of tweezers. You cleared your throat.

He flinched, just slightly, not startled, but disrupted. He glanced over, then blinked twice before returning his eyes to the gears. “I didn’t forget,” he said, voice low. “About dinner. I just needed to finish this one.”

“It’s okay,” you replied. “I figured you were… in it.”

He nodded. “Twenty-six teeth. That’s how many this gear has. If it’s off by even one, the whole movement seizes.”

You stepped in, slowly. “How long have you been working?”

He glanced at the window. Realized it was dark. Then rubbed his hand over his face. “I don’t know,” he said. “Long enough to forget the tea went cold.”

You poured a fresh cup from the thermos you brought and placed it next to him. He didn’t say thank you, but he didn’t need to. He shifted, just slightly, so your shoulders could touch as you leaned on the bench beside him.

After a while, he said quietly, “I don’t always know how to say I’m glad you’re here.”