He handed me a small brass key. "For when you lose yours. I’ve seen you fumble at the lock three times this week."
The neighbors whispered. Some said he was a retired spy; others claimed he was hiding a collection of stolen Renaissance art. I just thought he liked his privacy.
Curiosity finally got the better of me. A week later, when I saw him struggling with a heavy box of books, I offered to help. As we entered his apartment, I didn't see spy equipment or stolen masterpieces. Instead, every inch of the wall was covered in clocks—grandfather clocks, cuckoos, pocket watches, and digital displays—all ticking in a chaotic, rhythmic symphony.