✨ On the first cold evening of autumn, you step in out of the rain and into a clockmaker's workshop, where the air smells of oil and beeswax and woodsmoke, and the ticking fills the room like water filling a shape. An old man works under a single lamp, fitting brass wheels back between their plates, and he nods once and leaves you to the warmth. There is a chair already drawn up to the stove, a blanket folded over its arm, and a cup set out by someone who thought there might be a visitor tonight. The hour arrives not as one sound but as a long soft wave of chimes, none of them together, none of them worried about it. Nothing is asked of you here. The clocks do all the counting.🌙

Includes mentions of: Rain on old glass 🌧️ · A brass bell above a door 🔔 · Clock oil and beeswax 🕯️ · Pendulums out of step ⚖️ · A lamp over a workbench 💡 · A wood stove and a kettle 🔥 · A wool blanket 🧶 · Stopped clocks waiting on a shelf 🕰️ · The hour striking in a slow wave 🔕

New episodes every Sunday evening.

Where we slow down, let go, and drift into rest.

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