Ch47 - Granddaughter

Outside, a cold wind swept past the window — but inside, the little workshop was calm, almost meditative. Over the past month, Violet had slowly adapted to its rhythm.

Shards of pale sunlight broke through the clouds, spilling across her workbench, glinting off the scattered tools.

Before her lay a wristwatch so caked in dried mud that its model and make were nearly impossible to tell. She’d already photographed it for the repair log and was now examining the damage in silence.

Dylan, passing by with a tray of polished components, stopped to stare. “I’ve never seen a watch in this bad shape. You think it’s even fixable?”

The strap had been removed; only the body remained. The glass covering the dial was gone. Soil and bits of plant matter clung to the gears, wedged between the lugs and crown. At first glance, you wouldn’t even recognize it as a watch.

Dylan’s specialty was in assembling new pieces — polishing, grinding, fitting — not restoring relics like this. To him, it looked like scrap.

Violet wiped away a thick layer of dried dirt with a soft cloth, her voice steady. “It might not be fixable. That’s probably why they gave it to me — to practice on.”

Dylan chuckled. “Guess Edward’s really testing you, huh? Throwing you into the deep end right away.”

She keep focused on her work. Once the outer casing was clean, she secured the piece under a tool and carefully pried open the case back.

The moment she saw inside, she frowned. The mud hadn’t just coated the outside — it had invaded the movement itself. The entire mechanism was clogged and corroded, proof that this watch had been neglected for years.

One by one, she disassembled the casing, sorting each tiny part into a circular tray. Then, with a fine brush, she swept away the remaining dirt. It took her over an hour to fully clean and dry the components. Following protocol, she began polishing the bezel to remove surface scratches, her movements slow and precise.

Every ounce of her focus was poured into the task.

She didn’t notice the man who had quietly entered the workshop.

He moved with a kind of measured calm, his sharp eyes scanning the room. The silver of his beard caught the light as he rubbed his chin, expression unreadable. Occasionally, his brow lifted — a silent critique, or perhaps approval — before his gaze finally landed on her.

From his angle, he could only see her profile — most of her face hidden behind the headband magnifier. But her concentration, the patience in her every motion as she guided the bezel against the polishing wheel, made him pause.

So this is Edward’s new protégé, he thought.

Before he could take a closer look, Dylan spotted him and instantly tugged off his gloves. “Mr. Reinhardt! What a surprise!”

The older man waved a hand dismissively, his voice low and gravelly yet warm. “No need for that formality. Just call me Josef.”

Dylan grinned. “Still, it’s an honor. But how come you’re here at this hour? Edward just stepped out—he’s not in the studio right now.”

Josef arched a brow and gave a faint, amused hum. “And here I thought I’d stop by and catch him for once.”

“Want me to call him? I can see when he’ll be back.”

“No need,” Josef said, shaking his head. “Wasn’t a planned visit anyway. Just passing through. I’ve got other matters to handle.”

Dylan nodded, smiling at the man’s straightforwardness. “Got it. Safe travels then.”

Josef lifted a hand in a casual wave and turned toward the door. But just as he reached it, he stopped again, glancing over his shoulder.

That same quiet figure was still at her bench, utterly lost in her work.

His eyes lingered for a moment longer, the corner of his mouth tightening—half a smile, half something else he couldn’t name. Then, with a small exhale, he pushed the thought away.

“Guess I’m getting old,” he muttered with a wry smile. “Getting curious about everything these days.”

Once Josef had left, Dylan returned to his workbench — only to suddenly remember something. He turned toward Violet.

“Hey, didn’t you once say your idol was your master’s master — Josef?”

“Josef? You mean Mr. Reinhardt?” Violet kept her eyes on the task in front of her, voice muffled through concentration. She wore anti-static gloves, her fingers steady as she held the bezel and guided it gently along the polishing wheel’s edge.

Under the light, the fine scratches began to fade, revealing the metal’s smooth shine again. The original black tone of the case slowly resurfaced.

When the wheel came to a stop, she finally lifted her head. “What about him? You started talking and then just stopped halfway.”

Dylan grinned. “Didn’t want to startle you — you might’ve sliced that bezel in half. Anyway, I’ve got good news and bad news.”

Her heart skipped. She quickly set everything down and swiveled around in her chair. “What happened? Is he okay?”

“Whoa, relax,” Dylan said, laughing. “He’s fine. More than fine — he was here, actually. Dropped by the workshop just now.”

Violet froze. “He—he was here? When?” She shot a glance toward the door as if he might still be standing there.

“Yeah,” Dylan said with a shrug. “But the bad news is, he already left.”

The color drained from her face. Her shoulders slumped, head bowing as a wave of disappointment washed over her.

“Hey, cheer up,” Dylan said kindly. “Sooner or later, you’ll meet him properly.”

Just then, a voice came from the doorway — the receptionist from the front desk poked her head in. “Hey, Dylan, do you know where that pocket watch Edward borrowed for the exhibition is? Mr. Reinhardt said he wants to pick it up.”

At once, Violet’s eyes lit up again. “I know where it is!”

She looked at Dylan almost pleadingly. “Let me grab it for you, please?”

It was obvious she wasn’t doing this for him — she wanted another chance to see the great Josef Reinhardt.

Dylan chuckled. “Be my guest.”

Violet was already halfway to the storage room. She entered after unlocking the double security system — key and code. Inside, the lighting was dimmer, the air cooler. Rows of neatly labeled cabinets lined the wall. She went straight to the third row, opened the middle box carefully, and checked the contents.

There it was — the pocket watch.

Satisfied, she closed the lid and held it delicately with both hands, as if it were made of glass.

The walk from the storage room to the front desk wasn’t long, but her heart thudded faster with every step. She didn’t even know why she was so nervous.

She lifted the curtain separating the workshop from the lobby — and froze.

There was a man standing there with his back to her, posture straight, hands clasped behind him.

Her pulse jumped. “Mr. Reinhardt?” she called softly.

The man turned.

For a moment, Violet’s excitement faltered, replaced by confusion.

He smiled. “Hello. I’m his assistant, Bastien.”

Ah. That explained it. Of course. Josef Reinhardt was supposed to be in his late seventies; this man looked barely in his fifties.

Recovering quickly, she stepped forward and offered him the box with both hands. “Nice to meet you. The pocket watch is right here.”

Bastien accepted it carefully. But instead of leaving right away, he looked at her for a beat too long.

“Is there… something else you need?” Violet asked politely.

“Oh, no,” he said quickly, clutching the box tighter. “Thank you.”

With a small nod, he turned and headed out.

Outside, Bastien placed the box carefully in the back seat before sliding behind the wheel.

He’d been with Josef for nearly thirty years — driver, assistant, and the one man who’d seen the old master at his best and his worst.

As he reached for the seat belt, he caught Josef’s reflection in the rearview mirror. Their eyes met for a brief second.

“Something wrong?” Josef asked quietly.

Bastien hesitated. Through the mirror, Josef’s sharp brown eyes still lingered in his mind — the same piercing look he’d just seen in that young woman at the workshop.

Something in her gaze… it was uncanny. Reminding him about Josef’s missing granddaughter. About the similar age, too. Could it be—

He cut the thought short. No. Just a resemblance, that’s all.

They’d searched the world for years, chasing lead after lead, every one ending in disappointment.

He couldn’t bear to stir up Josef’s hope again… not for nothing.

“Nothing,” he said finally, forcing a smile. “Where to next?”

Josef arched a brow. “This was only a quick detour. Back to the plan — the airport.”

“Got it,” Bastien replied, starting the car. “I’ll have them check for the next first-class flight to London. There should still be seats available.”