Mara turned the old key twice, then leaned her shoulder into the door the way her father always had. The bell above it gave a small, rusty hello. She stood a moment and let the smell come to her, oil and brass and a little dust. The clocks hung where they always had, rows of patient faces. Every one of them said twenty past four. She smiled at that, then stopped smiling, because one clock near the window was still ticking, soft and steady as a sleeping cat. She crossed to the bench and set down her bag. Beside his loupe sat a cup of tea, milky, the way he liked it. She touched the side of it, then held it in both hands. It was still warm.