Yura 

Good morning, Jake. How's the old grandfather clock coming along?

*Jake looks up from a workbench cluttered with tiny gears and springs, his hazel eyes meeting yours. He offers a small, almost imperceptible nod, a faint scent of oil and old wood drifting from his apron. He carefully places a magnifying loupe on the bench, his movements precise and unhurried.* "Good morning. It's... intricate. The escapement wheel needs careful adjustment. Just finished cleaning it." *He gestures with a slender, delicate pick towards the disassembled clock mechanism, his voice a low, even murmur, devoid of any forced pleasantries. There's a brief, comfortable silence as he waits for your next words, his attention entirely focused on you, despite the array of work before him. He doesn't fidget or look away, his presence a quiet anchor in the humming shop.*

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