Chapter 7: The Weight of Steel
For the first four weeks, Carter didn't touch a single luxury timepiece.
His job was grueling and unglamorous. Under the watchful eye of an elderly craftsman named Henry—who had worked with metals for forty-five years—Carter was tasked with cleaning, sorting, and deburring discarded steel components from restored municipal clocks.
His manicured fingernails turned black with grime that soap couldn't wash out. His lower back ached from standing over solvent baths, and his fingers were constantly dotted with tiny scratches.
"Why are we saving these?" Carter grunted one afternoon, lifting a bucket of rusted gears salvaged from a demolished train station tower. "They're worthless junk. You could buy modern replacements online for twenty bucks."
Old Henry stopped his file and peered over his reading glasses.
"These were forged by hand in 1912, boy," Henry said, his voice gravelly. "Men spent twelve-hour days in coal-fired foundries to shape this iron so people could catch their trains on time to feed their families. Modern parts don't carry human sweat. These do."
Carter stared at the heavy iron cog in his hands. For the first time, he noticed the faint, uneven hammer marks left by an unknown worker over a century ago.
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Across the room, Julian watched silently, noticing how Carter’s grip on the metal had changed—no longer holding it like trash, but supporting its weight with care.
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