The clockmaker never worked on Sundays, but he always spent the evening winding his masterpieces. One by one, he turned the keys, feeling the tension return to the springs. He saw the week as a coiled wire. By Sunday, the wire was loose, the energy spent, the rhythm slowing down. Winding them back up was his way of welcoming the future. "You have to give the time a reason to keep moving," he whispered to a grandfather clock. As the rhythmic tick-tock filled the shop again, he felt the heartbeat of the new week starting to pulse, a steady, mechanical promise that the sun would rise.