For seventeen years, the old watchmaker had lived above his shop on Krummgasse, surrounded by the soft, metallic breathing of clocks. He knew their languages—the brisk tick of a railway chronometer, the languid tock of a Viennese regulator, the nervous stutter of a broken alarm. But at exactly 58 seconds past each hour, for the past three months, every timepiece in his collection would hesitate.
He found it buried under a pile of broken music boxes: a silver pocket watch, its lid engraved with initials F.P. —the same as his. Inside, instead of a movement, there was a folded photograph of a man who looked exactly like him, dated 1958, with one word scrawled on the back: Start. florian poddelka 58
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