It's in his pocket.
An old fob watch hanging on a silver chain, clinging with all its might to the wooden fabric as if afraid of losing its owner.
The owner himself does not pay it much mind. He never looks at it it is unnecessary it is just a watch and it is a good weight there in his pocket keeping him grounded when his mind goes out of his head and is soaring somewhere in cosmos collecting facts and theories.
No, he doesn't need to look at it. His nimble fingers have run its edges sharp and have traced the delicate pattern countless times over the years. They know every curve, every line and they will never reveal this secret to another person, another human. This is his and it will stay that way, hidden within the depths of his coat and giving him a sense of home, however mad that sounds to his own ears. You can't have home in a clock.