Her father laughed.
Then handed it back.
“There you go.”
She stared at the repaired toy.
Then looked toward the broken watches covering his workbench.
“Daddy, why do people throw watches away?”
He considered the question.
“Sometimes because they stop working.”
“But you can fix them.”
“Sometimes.”
She frowned.
“Then why don't they bring them to you?”
He smiled sadly.
“Not everybody knows something can be repaired.”
The girl thought about that.
Then nodded solemnly.
“I'll tell them.”
Her father laughed.
“Good. I could use the business.”
The shop wasn't wealthy.
Most customers brought ordinary watches.
The work was steady but rarely profitable.
Her father charged less than he should have.
Sometimes he repaired watches for free when customers couldn't afford the cost.
Her mother complained affectionately about that habit.
“You can't pay rent with gratitude.”
He would smile.
“Maybe not.”
Then he would look toward the small collection of repaired watches.
“But I can sleep at night.”
The family lived in a modest apartment above the shop.
Her mother worked as a seamstress and occasionally took evening shifts assisting at a clothing boutique.
Money was tight.
Bills arrived.
Rent increased.
And some months required careful decisions about which expenses could wait.
But the girl never remembered feeling poor inside her father's workshop.
To her, it was a place filled with treasures.
Brass gears.
Silver cases.
Tiny screws.
Watchmaking tools.
Magnifying lenses.
And clocks that ticked with different rhythms, creating a strange mechanical music.
Her favorite place was the stool beside his desk.
Every evening after homework, she sat there watching him work.
He taught her the names of components.
Balance wheel.
Escapement.
Mainspring.
Bridge.
Gear train.
He explained why some watches required winding.
Why others used automatic movements.
And why a perfectly beautiful watch could still be poorly made inside.