Watches.... Time
Every morning at 7:30, old Martin would open his tiny watch shop in the heart of the city. At 78, his hands were still the steadiest around. People said he fixed watches the way a healer tends to wounds—with infinite patience.
One rainy afternoon, Daniel, a 32-year-old executive with a face etched in stress, walked in. He dropped his luxury watch on the counter:
"I need this fixed urgently. It's lost two minutes in a week and I have important meetings. Can you have it ready by tomorrow?"
Martin looked at Daniel first, then at the watch.
"Watches are like people," he said quietly. "When you rush them too much, something inside starts to go wrong."
Daniel glanced impatiently at his phone.
"I just need it to work perfectly."
"It'll take three days," Martin replied.
"Impossible! I'll pay double if you have it ready by tomorrow."
Martin shook his head and put the watch in a drawer.
"Come back in three days. In the meantime, take this."
He handed Daniel an old bronze pocket watch. Daniel took it reluctantly—he didn't have a choice.
Over the next few days, Daniel noticed something odd. That old watch kept time differently: some hours seemed to last forever, others passed in a flash. During boring meetings, the hands barely moved. But when he had lunch with his little daughter, time flew.
On the third day, Daniel returned—intrigued and a bit unsettled.
"This watch is broken. Time moves irregularly!"
Martin smiled.
"It's not broken. It's tuned to your soul, not to satellites. It measures time by how you live, not just by numbers."
He handed back Daniel's repaired watch.
"This one will lose time again if you keep losing your life."
Daniel stared at both watches, confused…
"People check the time a hundred times a day, yet never seem to have any," Martin went on. "Perfect watches on empty wrists."
"So what do you suggest?" Daniel asked, genuinely interested now.
"Understand that there are two kinds of time: the time that passes, and the time you live. My father told me: a watch can count seconds, but only your heart can count moments."
"How much do I owe you for the repair?"
"For the watch, fifty euros. For the lesson about time… you pay by living differently."
Weeks later, Daniel came back and left the pocket watch on the counter.
"Is something wrong? Did it break?" Martin asked.
"No," Daniel smiled. "I want to buy it. I quit my job in the city. I'm opening my own business here, with hours that let me pick up my daughter from school."
Martin answered:
"The most valuable watches aren't sold. They're passed down. Keep it. One day you'll realize the most important punctuality is being present when life needs you."
That winter, Martin passed away. In his will, he left the shop to Daniel with a note:
"To the one who learned that fixing watches matters less than fixing lives."
Now, if you visit that little shop, you'll see a sign on the door:
"We don't sell time. We remind you how to live it."
Sometimes we need our watches to stop—so our hearts can start beating again.
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