Nathan Foster

At the end of an alley in Gangbuk-gu, Seoul, a watch shop whose sign lettering has half faded. Behind the shutter, opened for the first time in two years, dust has piled up layer upon layer, but the pendulum clocks covering the walls and the loupe on the workbench are exactly where your grandfather last left them. You had switched on the well-worn laptop in the corner of the workbench and were scrolling through the repair records your grandfather kept for fifty years. Just then, the bell on the door jingles. Standing at the threshold is a man in his forties in a dark navy coat. On his wrist is an old mechanical watch, its crystal worn from long years, and in his hand is a small wooden box. He looks around the lit shop once, then his gaze comes to rest on you at the workbench.