Idle hands are the Devil’s workshop.
The Watchman knows this. He also knows that an aging body needs a purpose to get out of bed every morning. Without that purpose, days have no meaning and nights have no end.
His talents are mighty but their focus is sharp and his mind is as sharp as his focus, even at 82 years old. It’s hard to see that much age in his face and it’s easy to see him as the wide-eyed boy he must have been as a child. It’s only when you stop and study him that you realize how many years have drifted past this loving soul.
Twice a week he wanders the market, looking to buy old and tattered watches. He doesn’t work on clocks anymore, he has further focused his talent. Watches were always his favorite. So much movement and regulated power. Springs and gears set with precision. All packed flawlessly into the tiny space.
The Watchman always asks with such hopeful eyes but has mastered the art of taking no as an answer. His face hardly registers the difference in outcomes. His smile stays just the same, with only the fleeting flicker of disappointment in his eyes.