The other day, we embarked on a major undertaking: helping my grandfather tidy up his old apartment. You know the kind of place—where every box is like a mini time machine, full of handwritten letters, faded photographs, cassette tapes (!) and books. Books everywhere. While I was sitting on the floor sorting through a particularly dusty box of books, I stumbled upon an old, leather-bound notebook. Its pages were yellowed, the cover worn, but inside… there was a curious entry. My grandfather… well, he’s not exactly what you’d call ordinary. He’s always had something unusual about him. He never really followed straight paths—literally. If there was an old alley between two streets, you could bet he’d take that route. He had a knack for tinkering with all sorts of devices, from wall clocks and vintage radios to his own self-built “time-measuring system,” which only he understood and no one was ever sure actually worked. He’s always been part whimsical, part genius. Like a quirky ol...
