Jeanne closed her eyes, focusing on the familiar weight of a watch cradled between her weathered hands. Claire de Lune floated from the radio in the corner, the soft notes of the ballad transporting Jeanne to a moment long gone. The composition was by her father's favorite composer - the French savant Claude Debussy.

The music continued playing, but suddenly, Jeanne was no longer sitting at her workbench. She was standing by her father's. Papa stood before her, his gaze alight with excitement as he proudly described the intricacies of his latest creation. "You see, Jeanne, watchmaking is a blend of artistry and engineering. It requires precision and, above all else, patience." Ushering her closer, he pointed to the hands of the watch, which slowly circulated its glossy dial. "How does it move like that?" Jeanne questioned curiously. Her voice was young and wispy, her joints no longer groaning in protest. Amused, papa chuckled in response. "Curious as ever, ma cherie. Don't worry, I can show you tomorrow. But for now, know this - the heart of the watch is movement." 

Claire de Lune's ending notes filled the silence of the workshop. Jeanne's eyes fluttered open, and she was greeted by the present, the music and the memory dissipating synchronously. Sighing, Jeanne slowly stood from her workbench, the movement initiating a dull ache in her lower back. Now sixty, Jeanne was no stranger to the pains of aging. Wrinkles were deeply etched into the grooves of her visage, and her posture sagged from the weight of trying to keep a dying craft alive.

The number of visitors to her workshop had dwindled dramatically in recent years, and now, Jeanne was lucky to see even a couple customers a week. Time had not diminished the livelihood of the Parisian streets - they bustled with activity. But her shop? It did not. Despite the trajectory of the business, Jeanne clung to watchmaking like a lifeline. She did so in part because of her passion for the craft, but above all else, she did it to keep the memory of her father alive. Watchmaking was not just a job to him; it was a lifestyle - an integral part of his identity. After years of tinkering with watch faces, she too felt like the craft was an irreplaceable part of her. 

Sighing, Jeanne set the watch down and glanced over at the small window to her right. Gently pulling back its modest tapestries, she contemplated the hues of dusk. The final remnants of daylight were dissipating rapidly, the light fading as the evening inched forward. After a few moments of consideration, Jeanne returned to her workbench to put her tools away. It was time to go home for the evening, but she would be back bright and early tomorrow. 

Jeanne grabbed her coat, carefully shimmying her arms into it. The fabric was cool against her flushed skin - a soothing sensation in the stifling warmth of the workshop. Just as she stepped toward the door, she heard a muffled voice across the threshold, followed by the staccato of a crisp knock. "Mamma? Mamma, are you still here?" 

Jeanne opened the door. Her daughter, Isabelle, stood on the other side, tentatively shifting her weight from one foot to the other. Her long dark hair sprawled down her shoulders in loose waves, her warm brown eyes pooling with concern. By her side was her son, Daniel, an inquisitive six-year-old with a lopsided grin and mop of curly hair. 

Daniel smiled up at his grandmother enthusiastically. "Grandma!" He tumbled forward, nearly knocking Jeanne down as he embraced her waist. "Daniel, be careful!" Isabelle exclaimed. "It's ok, Isabelle. Bonsoir, mon chou," Jeanne chuckled. She leaned down to plant a kiss on the boy's forehead and ruffle his hair before returning her tired gaze to her daughter.

 Isabelle frowned with concern etching her features as she took in her mother's disheveled appearance. "Maman, you shouldn't be here so late - you spend too much time cooped up in this workshop," she stated softly. "I was just heading out," Jeanne replied. Isabelle nodded in acknowledgment and ushered Daniel to her side. "Daniel, let's walk grandma home." Nodding excitedly, Daniel turned and bounded toward the door. Isabelle and Jeanne walked closely behind.

The trio descended the steps from the workshop, making their way onto the street. While most of the city was buzzing with activity, this particular sidestreet was quiet, as though it had prematurely fallen captive to nightfall. Their footsteps echoed on the cobblestone as they made their way home. As usual, Daniel sauntered ahead, energetically jumping over cracks in the pavement and humming to himself. Jeanne walked beside her daughter, who grabbed her arm affectionately. "Maman, you're going to work yourself to death." Jeanne smiled warily at Isabelle, patting her shoulder before shifting her gaze to Daniel. "I have to keep the tradition alive, Isabelle. You know that it isn't just my job." 

Isabelle furrowed her brow in response and averted her gaze to the floor. She remained silent for a few moments before gripping her mother's hand. There was a certain desperation in her movements. Jeanne opened her mouth to reassure her daughter, but before she could, Isabelle spoke. "You've spent the past three years in constant unease - either reflecting on the past or worrying about the future. Do you realize what you're missing, maman? The present. Life is short - don't waste the rest of yours chasing phantoms." 

Jeanne stopped abruptly, the sting of the sentiment rendering her motionless. Daniel, blissfully unaware, continued trotting down the road. "Just think about it," Isabelle whispered. Then she turned, jogging in an attempt to catch up with her son. Jeanne watched as Isabelle approached Daniel and bent down to meet his wide-eyed gaze. She spoke in hushed whispers before swinging him into the air. Daniel erupted into a fit of giggles, circling his arms around Isabelle's neck as she propped him up on her hip. Jeanne's eyes welled with tears as she recalled holding Isabelle in the same fashion. 

Noting that three generations of her family currently stood on Rue de Molin, Jeanne came to a poignant realization. Time was not linear, nor was there a single way to measure it. She'd always liked to believe that a watch was the most accurate way of measuring time. But as she watched Isabelle carry Daniel down the street, she realized she was wrong. The passage of time was not constrained to the hands of a clock. 

At that moment, Jeanne saw the world through new eyes that understood time as an intangible entity existing in everyone and everything. Time was the budding flowers to her left and the wilting ones to her right. Time was her daughter's concerned gaze. It was her grandson's laughter, which bounded down the street.

"Movement is the heart of the watch." Her father's warm voice echoed through the corridors of her consciousness. It was a statement she'd heard time and time again growing up, but now it was endowed with an entirely new meaning. Blinking rapidly, Jeanne turned to gaze at her workshop once more before following her daughter and grandson toward the intersection that led home. It was time to let go of time.