The watch passed down from father to son

You might laugh, but sometimes I think my job is like that of a shrink. People come with their emotionally charged objects, and I listen to them tell me family stories.

Like this kid—well, a young man of about 25—who showed up one Wednesday morning with an old watch in a plastic bag. The kind of watch our grandfathers wore: massive, gold, with a completely ruined leather strap.

"Hi, uh... I could use some help with this."

He took out the watch and carefully placed it on the counter. It was clearly worn: scratches everywhere, a strap falling apart, but the gold case still held its own.

"It's my father's. Well... it was." He stops, swallows. "He died last year. Cancer."

Oh shit. These times, I never know what to say. I nodded, waited for him to continue.

"The thing is, I'd like to wear it. But it's in such a state... And it's huge for me. Dad had big wrists."

He manipulated the watch while talking, just like someone who knows the object by heart.

"He had this habit of tapping it with his index finger. Always. Even when we were watching TV, knock knock knock on the glass. It drove Mom crazy!" He smiled as he said this.

I asked him what exactly he wanted. Restore? Modernize?

"No, no, I want it to stay the same. Just... wearable. So I can wear it without looking like a kid who dressed up in his dad's clothes."

We discussed the possibilities. Polish the case without touching too much of the small imperfections that make it so charming. Change the strap but keep the original as a souvenir. Adjust the size. Overhaul the movement.

"How much will it cost?"

Honestly, for this kind of family job, I never really count my hours. It's not business, it's human.

Two weeks later, he returned. I had done a good job—even I was proud of the result. The watch had regained its splendor without losing its soul.

He took it, turned it this way and that, then strapped it to his wrist. Silence. He watched the second hand ticking.

"Fuck..." (sorry for the word, but that's what he said).

And then, instinctively, he started tapping on the glass with his index finger. Knock, knock, knock. Just like his father.

He realized this and burst out laughing. "Oh, well, shit! I'm doing the same thing as him!"

We laughed together. Moments like that are why I love my job.

He left delighted, his watch on his wrist. He told me later that he wore it every day to the office, and that his colleagues thought this vintage watch was classy.

This reminds me of another story. A gentleman in his sixties brings me his father's wedding ring. "It doesn't fit me; my fingers are thinner than his. But I want to wear it to his funeral."

Emergency work, we adjust the size. On the big day, he comes back to see me: "When I shook the mayor's hand to thank him, I felt the ring. It was weird, I felt like Dad was there too."

That's what I love about Azor. We don't just sell new jewelry. We resurrect old ones, we give them a new lease of life. We help families keep their memories alive.

Gold crosses generations. It doesn't wear out, it doesn't tarnish. A bit like family love, after all.