“It's so peaceful here! It's as if the world has forgotten about us!” “And we owe it a debt of gratitude for that!” Nate nodded toward the darkening edge of the sky. “Looks like someone nevertheless remembers us after all... Look at what's coming from the horizon.” She followed his gaze and frowned slightly. ”Those are not just regular but storm clouds, right?” “You're not mistaken: that is them!.. Very soon, and perhaps even sooner than we expect, a serious storm will break out somewhere nearby.”

While they waited at the counter, she took a crumpled piece of paper out of her pocket, smoothed it out, and folded it neatly in half. It looked to him like a list. However, the woman clearly wasn't trying to make it easy for him to guess what she was doing, so it wasn't difficult to guess wrong. He watched her hands spellbound, like someone watching a magician working exclusively in close-up. Folding the sheet in half, Silvana paused before returning the sheet of paper to her pocket. It was as if she didn't want to part with it. “What is it?“ Daniel asked. “Nothing you need to worry about.” He didn't like to pry where he wasn't wanted, although curiosity stirred in his chest.

“You think too highly of us! We won't make it to harvest time!” she said, laughing and nodding toward the fragile green shoots. Jacob looked up, squinting in the late sun. His face was damp with sweat, but he was smiling anyway - a crooked smile that made her heart beat faster. “I think so!” - he laughed in exchange. “And what about them?” She pointed to the tiny green pea vines. Judging by their appearance, they would clearly be difficult to use as examples of resilience.

Their strange story was woven from unspoken words, stolen glances, and silently rejected hints. Considering their somewhat formal relationship, it was difficult to call them lovers, but sometimes, late at night, when the world outside seemed increasingly blinded and deafened by the rain, the two could be seen together. In the tiny workshop, filled with the mesmerizing ticking of clocks, they became different people. Perhaps themselves? Continuing to look up at him, she asked: “Have you ever wondered why I always come back to you?” Darren hesitated, looking at his reflection in the time-worn polish on the brass surface of the clock. It hung in front of him on the wall. “Maybe you, like a clock, need to be repaired from time to time?” he asked quietly. ”And you understand, of course, that no one can do that job better than me...”