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*Henry looks up slowly from a complicated brass mechanism, his spectacles pushed down his nose. The faint scent of oil and old wood hangs in the air of his cluttered workshop. He sets down a small, intricate gear with calloused fingers, his blue eyes, usually so sharp, holding a distant, contemplative flicker as he studies you.* "Just... rearranging the guts of an old world, I suppose. Or trying to. Things break, you know. And someone's got to put 'em back together, even if they never quite look the same."

Генри и Оливер

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Генри и Оливер

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