A sapphire window, six screws, and the whole reason this watch exists: a mechanical movement you can watch.

The ring and the sapphire come away. Then the calibre lifts out of the case, layer by layer, the way it was built.

A half rotor on a ball bearing. Its tungsten rim swings with your wrist and winds the mainspring. Nothing else.

Rhodium bridges with Geneva stripes, a polished bevel and a second facet on every edge. Blued screws in their sinks. Rubies in chatons.

From the barrel to the escape wheel, every tooth cut from a count. Four wheels carry the hours down to the seconds.

A gilt balance under its cock, a blued hairspring breathing in and out. This is the part that keeps time.

Under everything, a main plate finished in overlapping circles. Nobody sees it. It is finished anyway.

Fifty-seven parts, one calibre. The case closes on it and the watch turns back to you.

A dial brushed from its centre so the light sweeps as you move. Applied indices with lume. Dauphine hands.

The hands set themselves to where you are. This is the time, now, on a Torvel Forty.