The Basement

The Founder's Workshop

The basement is warmer than it should be. Workbenches stretch into the dark, crowded with half repaired clocks, cracked frames, and labels written in the same neat hand as the card upstairs. Above them, a great clock face is set into the wall, its hands stopped at one minute to midnight.

In the middle of the floor sits a single wooden crate. Your name is stenciled on the side. The lid is held on by one loose nail.

Next to the crate, on a hook, hangs a heavy iron ring with one key. A paper tag on it reads: Front doors. He never had the nerve.