He was drawn to the rhythm of the city, the ebb and flow of life in the bustling marketplace. The clatter of trams, the boisterous calls of street vendors, the murmur of conversations spilling from pubs – it was a symphony he knew by heart. Evenings found him at his workbench, surrounded by the tools of his trade: pliers, screwdrivers, tiny files glinting under the dim lamplight. He wasn't building grand machines or imposing structures; his creations were smaller, more intimate. He crafted intricate clocks and music boxes, each a testament to his patience and meticulous attention to detail. The steady tick-tock of a newly finished clock brought him a deep sense of satisfaction. It was more than just the mechanism working; it was the embodiment of time itself, frozen yet ever moving. He saw beauty in the precise dance of gears and springs, the way each tiny component contributed to the whole. His workshop, tucked away on a quiet side street, was a sanctuary from the city's noise. Sunlight streamed through the window, illuminating dust motes dancing in the air like miniature planets. Here, amidst the scent of oil and polished brass, he found solace and purpose. He believed that even the smallest creations could hold immense beauty and meaning. He often thought about his parents, their faces hazy with time. His father, a stonemason with calloused hands and a quiet strength, had instilled in him a love for craftsmanship and the enduring power of creation. His mother, with her gentle smile and twinkling eyes, had nurtured his imagination and encouraged him to see beauty in the everyday world. He carried their legacy within him, shaping it into something new, something uniquely his own. And as he listened to the soft melody of a music box winding down, he knew that he was carrying on a tradition that stretched back generations, a tradition of making, of creating, of leaving a mark on the world, however small it might be. relations: [object Object] with Vivienne Loirent