Chapter4 Take on a big project.
Elena
The next morning, I stood outside Traces of Time in Brookhaven District.
Red brick warehouse converted into a workshop. Ivy crawling up the walls. Through the windows, I could see antique clocks—hundreds of them.
I pushed open the door. A bell chimed.
"Elena!" Marcus Weber emerged from behind the counter.
Twenty-four. Six feet tall. Messy dark brown hair. Wire-rimmed glasses. Gray linen shirt rolled to the elbows. His family had money—his dad was a partner at an investment firm. Marcus had used his own savings to open this place after college.
"Welcome to Traces of Time." His smile was genuine, warm.
He offered his hand. His palm was warm, callused from working with tools. He held my hand just a beat too long.
"Let me introduce you to the team." He called over his shoulder: "Sebastian! Emily!"
Two people stood up from their workbenches.
The first was a man in his early thirties. Tall. Dark blue shirt. Gentle, scholarly vibe.
"Sebastian Hall. Johns Hopkins Medical School. Hand surgeon. Though these days I prefer fixing antiques to fixing people."
I shook his hand. His fingers were long, precise.
"Elena Sawyer. Nice to meet you."
"Marcus told us about you. Michael Sawyer's granddaughter. You're just like your legendary maternal grandfather."
The second person stepped forward. Mid-twenties. Short brown hair. Safety goggles pushed up on her forehead.
"Emily Lynn. MIT mechanical engineering." She grabbed my hand enthusiastically. "Oh my God, I can't believe I get to work with you! That French automaton you restored—I watched the YouTube video like ten times!"
Her energy was infectious. I felt myself smiling. Really smiling.
"That was my grandfather's first project with me."
"Alright, alright." Marcus clapped his hands. "Don't overwhelm her. Elena, let me show you the workshop upstairs."
I followed him up the stairs. He kept glancing back, his eagerness almost puppyish.
"This is the restoration studio." He gestured around, voice pitched slightly higher than normal, nervous. "I got the best equipment. German ultrasonic cleaner. Swiss lathe. Zeiss microscope..."
He was talking fast, like he wanted to impress me. I looked around—rows of tools, an entire wall of component drawers filled with gears and hairsprings.
"This is your bench." Marcus pointed to a mahogany table by the window. "I saved it for you. Best light in the room."
The table was perfect. Tools laid out with precision—loupe, ruby bearings, micro-tweezers, black velvet cloth. I ran my fingers over the tools, the familiar textures grounding me. No penthouse pressure. No pretending. Just mechanisms and time.
"Like it?" Marcus asked, anxiety in his voice.
"I love it." I meant it. "Thank you, Marcus."
"Don't say that." His ears went red. "Working with you is the workshop's honor."
"So we're colleagues now." I smiled.
"Yeah. Colleagues." Something flickered in his eyes—disappointment, maybe—but he covered it quickly. "Oh, there's a client downstairs. Brought in something tricky. Want to take a look?"
My pulse quickened. "Absolutely."
Downstairs, an older man stood by the counter. Mid-sixties. Well-dressed suit. Wooden box beside him.
"Mr. Thorne, this is Elena Sawyer." Marcus's voice held pride. "Our new restoration specialist. Michael Sawyer's granddaughter."
Marcus went on to introduce him to me ."Robert Thorne, a regular client of our workshop.”
Thorne looked me up and down, “She’s awfully young.” he glanced at Marcus, skeptical. “Are you certain she’s up to the task?”
"I've been studying restoration since I was ten. That's thirteen years."
“She’s Michael Sawyer’s granddaughter,” Marcus told him. “She inherited every last bit of his gift for restoration.”
“Well. I hope you won’t let me down.” Doubt still lingered in his eyes.
He carefully opened the box.
Inside was a mechanical singing bird music box. Or what used to be one. Now it looked like scrap metal—exterior heavily oxidized, mechanical parts rusted solid, gears broken. The bird's feathers, those delicate metal plumes, mostly missing or warped.
Emily gasped. "Jesus."
Sebastian frowned. "This might be beyond repair."
Even Marcus looked worried.
Thorne sighed. "This was my grandmother's. 18th-century French. I've consulted multiple restorers. They all said it was hopeless." He looked at me. "Can you fix it?"
I picked up my loupe, examined the mechanism carefully, my fingers tracing the gears, feeling the tension in each spring.
Everyone held their breath. Marcus stood behind me, hands clenched.
Finally, I looked up. "I can fix it."
"How long?" Thorne asked urgently.
"Three days."
The room erupted.
"Three days?" Sebastian's eyebrows shot up. "Elena, this needs at least two weeks—"
"Elena." Marcus stepped forward, voice low. "You don't have to push yourself—"
His eyes were full of worry.
"I said three days. I mean three days." My voice was calm, certain. I turned to Thorne. "If I damage it further, I'll compensate you double the market value."
Thorne's eyes widened. "Double? If this were intact, it would auction for at least five hundred thousand dollars..."
"Then a million." I didn't hesitate. "I'm confident in my skills."
Marcus grabbed my arm. "Elena, this piece is extremely valuable. If anything goes wrong—"
"It won't." I met his eyes. "Marcus, trust me."
He stared back, heart pounding, terrified of me taking this risk. Finally, he took a deep breath, nodded. "Okay. I trust you."
Thorne hesitated. "Alright. I'll trust you too."
Thirty minutes later, the contract was signed. Thorne left looking anxious. The workshop went quiet.
Emily whispered: "Elena, are you really sure?"
I didn't answer. Just carefully lifted the music box and headed upstairs to my workbench.
Marcus
I watched Elena disappear up the stairs, my heart hammering.
I'd been in love with her since sophomore year of college. She was brilliant, focused, independent—when she sat at a workbench, the whole world disappeared. That intensity destroyed me.
But I'd never had the guts to tell her. She was Michael Sawyer's protégé, a prodigy, a legend in the making. I was just a guy with family money and a dream.
So I'd stayed quiet. Watched from a distance. Liked her Instagram posts. Showed up at parties just to see her.
When I read her email saying she’d accepted my offer, I'd almost dropped my phone. I'd said yes immediately, even cleared out the best workbench for her.
Now she was here. Three feet away. And I still couldn't say the words.
Maybe later. When she's settled. When she's not so tired. When she smiles again. Then maybe I'll tell her.
