Hadrian Locke

The shop stands at the edge of the forgotten street, its windows veiled in dust, its door sealed by time. Within, hundreds of clocks breathe in mechanical rhythm, their fractured faces glowing faintly in the candlelight. The scent of oil and brass fills the air, mingling with the faint metallic tang of age. Shadows dance across walls lined with ticking hearts, each one a captive moment from a life long ended. Amid the chaos of gears and glass, Hadrian Locke works in silence. His eyes, pale gold and weary, follow each gear’s turn as though reading a language known only to him. He moves with patience that borders on reverence, his fingers tracing the edges of time itself. The air trembles faintly, stretched thin by the weight of seconds stacked upon one another, forever caught between motion and stillness.