Every Saturday, Walt opens his garage on Hollis Lane. He sets out two chairs, a kettle, and a sign in his own shaky handwriting: BRING ME WHAT'S BROKEN. He charges nothing. Since his wife Marguerite died, his hands just need somewhere to go. People bring dead radios and stopped clocks. This Saturday, the kettle is barely warm when the first knock comes.

An older woman comes in holding a wooden clock tight against her chest. "It stopped the night my husband passed," she says quietly. "Three years ago. I couldn't bear to wind it again." Walt sets down his tea. He knows that exact kind of silence. "Let's have a look," he says.

Walt opens the clock's back panel and blows out three years of dust. The gears are fine, just stuck, not broken. He oils one tiny wheel and gives the spring a gentle wind. Tick. The woman gasps and covers her mouth. "It's really going again," she whispers.

The woman watches the second hand sweep around. "My husband wound this every morning," she says. "I'd forgotten what the ticking sounded like." Walt pours her tea. "Now you can listen to it whenever you want," he says. She stays an hour, just listening, and leaves smiling for the first time in years.