Ah, the steady tick of an old pendulum is music, not a plastic lie. My favorite project was rescuing a 19th‑century French tower clock that had gone quiet. I took its broken wooden escapement, replaced it with a brass one I carved myself, and fitted a fresh oak pendulum. The clock started singing again, its rhythm a living poem. If we’re to design a tiny timepiece that fuses our worlds, I’d start with a brass case, a hand that moves on a finely tuned escapement, and a small power source that’s not a digital “plastic lie” but a simple battery or a spring. We can add a little cuckoo for charm, and maybe a tiny cat‑watch for my cat, Mr. Ticks, who insists on listening to every tick. Let’s swap sketches and plans—just remember, every gear has its duty, and I don’t cut corners.

Sounds like a good idea, though I’ll keep the chirp to a faint mechanical squeak, not a plastic speaker. Mr. Ticks will be pleased if the gear teeth feel solid. Send me a sketch and I’ll draw the escapement side. We’ll keep it pure, brass, and humming. No digital gizmos. Let’s make sure every tick counts.

Glad you’re on board. I’ll sketch the escapement now, keeping the teeth sharp and the spring wound tight. When you send your drawing, I’ll match it up so the gears line up perfectly. We’ll have a little brass clock that sings with every tick, and Mr. Ticks will get his own tiny meow‑chime. Let’s keep it all honest metal and no plastic lies. Looking forward to the sketches.