The watch rested against Leo's palm, its ticking steady, insistent, almost alive. The longer he held it, the clearer the thoughts became—sharper, more intimate, impossible to ignore.
This plank won't line up… Why can't I get it right?
Leo's brow furrowed. He didn't know who the voice belonged to, but he felt the frustration ripple through him, a physical thrum that made his chest tighten. The care in the words, the quiet stubbornness behind the failure—they spoke of someone who took pride in their craft, someone who poured themselves into their work even when the world pressed down.
And then came another thought, heavier:
I can't let them take it. I can't lose it… Not everything Elias and I built.
Leo froze. There was grief there, sharp and raw, and it resonated in him like a chord plucked too hard. He could feel the weight of loss, the frustration of dreams deferred, the lingering ache of a future that had been ripped away. A stranger was speaking directly to him through the watch, and though he had never met the man, Leo's chest ached with recognition.
He began to notice patterns—the rhythm of the thoughts, the subtle shifts in their tone, the way quiet triumphs were shadowed by doubt. He heard joy when a joint fit perfectly, satisfaction in a smooth plane, and frustration when a cut went wrong. There was artistry here, a life shaped by care and persistence, and yet beneath it all, a profound loneliness that mirrored his own.
Leo found himself sketching. At first, faint outlines on a scrap of paper: the curve of a jaw, the tilt of an eyebrow, the hands that might craft such precise, careful work. With each fragment of thought, he added detail—hair that caught light, a hint of shoulders stooped from long days of labor, eyes that must carry both resilience and weariness.
He imagined the man behind the voice. He imagined his apartment, cluttered with wood shavings and unfinished projects. He imagined him pausing at the counter of a café, coffee forgotten, brows furrowed with calculation, and a subtle ache lurking just beneath the surface.
The more Leo listened, the more he felt the strange, protective affection swell in him. This unseen man, so far away yet so intimately connected through a single pulse of ticking, had become a presence that mattered to him. The watch's hum was no longer noise—it was longing, a bridge that whispered of shared solitude, quiet hope, and perhaps something more.
He leaned back in his chair, sketchpad open on his lap, heart fluttering in ways he had not expected. Empathy had turned to curiosity, curiosity to fascination, fascination to a yearning he could barely name. And though he had never seen Kai Mercer, he felt as though he were already standing beside him, sharing his frustrations, his triumphs, his quiet, unspoken longing for connection.
Leo traced the edge of the watch with his finger, feeling its warmth, its steady heartbeat. Somewhere, far away, the man he had never met was living his life in pieces—broken, beautiful, alive. And Leo, in the solitude of his shop, could not help but want to protect him.