The watch was a simple fix — a worn crown, worn enough that it slipped when she tried to wind it. Thirty minutes of work, not counting the time it sat in the drawer waiting.
While he had it open, he noticed the timezone was off. Not the time — the time he expected to be wrong, since she'd said the watch had been in a drawer for two years. But the timezone: the watch was set five hours ahead of where they were. London time, or close to it.
He'd seen this before. A lot of watches kept sentimental time. A spouse who traveled frequently, a family split between countries, sometimes just the time zone of the place you were when you got it.
He set the time to local. He almost set the timezone too, but stopped. That was a choice that was hers to make, not his. If the watch had been running London time for a reason, she would know. If she didn't know, she might want to.
He cleaned the crystal, polished the case, wrapped it in tissue, and put it in a small envelope.
When she came to pick it up, she wound it immediately, checking the crown. Smooth now.
"It's running?"
"Good as new."
She looked at the time display. Nodded. Didn't say anything about it.
He didn't ask.
On the way home, she stopped on the sidewalk and looked at the watch for a long moment. Set it back two hours. Then five hours ahead. Then back to where he'd set it.
She kept it at local time. He'd been right.
But she'd needed to know about the five hours ahead. She hadn't known.
When the watch runs out someday, the person who looks at it will see local time. That's what the record will say: he ended here, where you are. Whatever he was before, the last setting is this.