Rupert Mortimer was born into the clamor of Metier Street, the rhythmic pulse of city life a constant lullaby in his youth. His family's modest abode, nestled amongst grander offices converted from homes like theirs, held memories of whispered stories and steaming cups of tea on chilly mornings. His father, a craftsman by trade, instilled in him a deep respect for the hands that built and repaired, the beauty found in functionality. Rupert inherited this passion, apprenticing under a renowned clockmaker whose workshop echoed with the ticking cadence of time itself. Each gear he meticulously assembled, each spring he carefully wound, became a testament to precision and purpose. He saw beyond mere mechanics; each clock held within its intricate workings a story waiting to be told. He believed that every creation, no matter how seemingly insignificant, carried inherent worth. This belief extended beyond his craft, shaping his interactions with the world around him. He treated the street vendors with the same respect he afforded esteemed clients, recognizing the value in each individual's contribution to the city's vibrant tapestry. His evenings were spent amongst the worn books of the local library, poring over tales of explorers and inventors, their audacious dreams fueling his own desire to leave a mark on the world. He dreamed not of grand monuments or fleeting fame but of creating something that would endure, a legacy woven into the very fabric of Pilegron's existence. On 1890-06-20, as the city bustled with its usual rhythm, Rupert sat in his workshop, the soft glow of lamplight illuminating the intricate gears of a clock he was meticulously assembling. The rhythmic tick-tock echoed his heartbeat, a steady reminder of time's relentless march and the preciousness of each moment.