Chapter 7 from The Timepiece Whisperer
It struck me as odd—how unmoved I was by the Watch Master’s death. No sadness, no shock. Just a dry acceptance, like hearing the mail didn’t arrive. The man was in his late seventies, had chain-smoked his way through the golden age of studio recording, and looked like he’d been exhaling Marlboro ghosts for decades. Of course he died. It was inevitable, like quartz battery failure.
And yet… I felt I should have felt more. But I was too deep in my own wrist-bound psychodrama. I wasn’t mourning a mentor—I was clawing for freedom from the slow, obsessive spiral of watch addiction. The Watch Master had passed the baton, and in his place stood a new sherpa on my horological hell-hike: Josh, the so-called Timepiece Whisperer.
The next evening, Josh opened the door with a look that said get ready to be offended gently.
“Bad news,” he said.
I followed him into the kitchen. Same table. Same tension. He poured me a mug of mint tea, then hit me with it:
“You want to add the Seiko Astron. I’ve thought about it. The answer is no. Absolutely not. You’re done. No more watches. Not now, not ever.”
I blinked. “That’s… a bit harsh.”
Josh didn’t blink. “It’s the truth. One more blue-dial beauty will not complete your collection—it’ll fracture it. You don’t wear formalwear. You don’t attend black-tie galas. That Astron won’t elevate your life—it’ll mock it. You’ll feel guilty for not wearing your other watches, they’ll collect dust and resentment, and you’ll spiral again. The result? Misery.”
I looked at the floor. I already knew this. I’d said the same things to myself, in a dozen internal arguments that always ended with but maybe just one more…
“You needed to hear it from someone else,” Josh said.
“I hate myself for being so weak. I should have handled this alone.”
He shrugged. “That’s what I’m here for. Left to your own devices, you’d still be googling ‘best summer watches for men over 60.’ I saved you a year of torment in two days. You’re welcome.”
Then he pulled out a sugar cube shaped like a butterfly—absurdly whimsical for such a hardline intervention—and dropped it into my tea.
“Close your eyes. Make a wish. Drink it down.”
I did as instructed. The mint tea was scalding and sweet.
He asked, “What did you wish for?”
“That I be free from this watch-collecting hellhole and never go back.”
He nodded. “Excellent wish.”
I never saw Josh again.
And I never bought another watch.
Cinemorphosis 
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