"My grandfather told me this watch stopped the moment he lost his soulmate," Ayten said softly. "He says, 'Sensiz vurmaz bu ürey' —this heart won't beat without her. He hasn't been the same since."

As Ayten left, Eldar sat in his quiet shop. For the first time in years, he placed a hand over his own chest. He realized that Leyla wasn't the reason his heart had stopped—she was the reason it had ever learned to beat at all.

Years ago, his wife, Leyla, had passed away. She was the melody to his rhythm, the "ürey" (heart) to his existence. Since her departure, Eldar felt as though his own heart had stopped beating in the way that mattered. To the world, he was alive; to himself, he was a clock with a broken mainspring.

He picked up his tools, the rhythm of the clocks surrounding him no longer sounding like a countdown, but like a chorus.

When Ayten returned, Eldar handed her the watch. But he also handed her a small note he had written for her grandfather.