“That’s when I started fixing the clocks again,” he says.

They do not say “I love you.” They say things like: “Your coffee is too strong” and “You left your compass on my nightstand.”

“He stopped,” Lukas says. “Not all at once. One gear at a time. By the end, he was just a face on a clock that no one wound.”

She turns. In the dark, she crosses the room. She kneels in front of his chair. She takes his hands—calloused, precise, gentle—and presses them to her own face.

He kisses her forehead. Then her left eyelid. Then the corner of her mouth.

One night, a power outage plunges the building into darkness. Lukas lights a single candle. The flame casts his shadow across the wall, and Clara sees it: the shadow of a man holding a tiny, motionless bird in his palm.

She walks to the door. He speaks to the candle: “The first time I saw you, you were crying on your balcony. Three months ago. You didn’t know anyone was watching. You cried like rain falls—without asking permission.”

Lyon, France. Autumn.