The watch must have had a great number of straps over the years, yet the machine itself was perfection in cogs, gold and glass. Ivan could become quite mesmerised watching the precision of its hands.
She had found the watch in a yard sale, yet it could have graced the shelves of any upmarket antique store. It was a thing of beauty, a mechanical dream made of tiny, tiny cogs. She had scooped it up as if she imagined others could see the prettiness she did - yet as is often the way, its beauty was in the eye of the beholder.
The wrist watch was a thing she wore as she as an accessory, yet one that carried a great significance. She could see the cogs working within, turning, doing the same thing day after day with reliable precision. That was how she needed to work during her working days. Then, on her free days she left it on a shelf to remind her that she could be the total opposite, doing whatever she pleased.
The watch was a thing almost no-one wore these days, yet it had been his fathers. He didn't care if it told the right time or not, just that when he wore it he could feel his father's wisdom in his blood.
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