"It's not a machine," Silas whispered, his Protestant discipline warring with a sudden, frantic wonder. "I can't fix what isn't bound by a mainspring."
"The Gods of this city believe that if you can't measure it, it doesn't exist," the stranger replied. "But Grace isn't a gear, Silas. It’s the silence between the seconds." The Gods of the City: Protestantism and Religio...
One Tuesday, a stranger entered his shop. He didn’t smell of the city’s soot or the church’s floor wax. He smelled of salt and wild jasmine. He laid a pocket watch on the velvet counter. It was beautiful, but when Silas opened the casing, his heart stuttered. The interior wasn't made of brass or steel. It was a miniature, living garden of moss and silver dew. It didn't tick; it breathed. "It's stopped," the stranger said. "It's not a machine," Silas whispered, his Protestant