In a crooked alley buzzing with neon haze, the eccentric clockmaker tinkered like a mad scientist of time. His workshop overflowed with whirring contraptions, jittery gears, and springs that bounced as if arguing with gravity. He claimed he could “coax seconds back from stubborn eternity,” which made customers both amused and terrified. One chaotic afternoon, a frantic girl burst in holding a warped pocket watch that kept skipping minutes like a mischievous rabbit. The clockmaker cackled with theatrical delight, tossing sparks of metal as he dissected the rebellious device. He muttered strange equations, tapped the gears like a tiny orchestra conductor, and even scolded the watch for “chronological disobedience.” Suddenly everything halted—tools mid-air, lights flickering—as he delivered a decisive twist. The watch revived, humming with an almost smug precision. The girl cheered, the machines applauded in clattering harmony, and the clockmaker bowed dramatically. “Time,” he declared, “behaves for those who dare to negotiate with it.”