A disc of yellow travertine hangs inside a slim metal arch, the stone left open pored so its whole history reads across the face.
The hands are fine and black, the movement silent, and no numerals interrupt the surface. You notice the material first and the hour second.
It carries a mantelpiece easily, or a wide shelf among books, or a desk that wants one solid quiet thing on it. Those warm sand tones agree with oak, with linen, with plaster. Stand it where the morning comes in from the side and the texture takes care of the rest.
