Too surprised to demur her offer, I watched as she made her way around the corner, resolute in her progress, wearied in her mien.

I strode quickly to the door to my apartment, the chill wind biting at my cheeks, making my eyes water, plucking with icy fingers at the spaces between the buttons of my overcoat.

Inside, I put the parcel down on the table and began to unwrap it. At first, I was unsure just what it was. Three concentric rows of tiny, exquisite Babushka dolls arranged on an ornately craved and gilded table, about 2 feet across and 5 inches high.

I found a large, golden key, resting in a tiny compartment on the side of what was beginning to look suspiciously like a clock. But what a clock! No hands on the clock, just the dolls. Smallest on the inside, then larger, and finally a ring of twelve of them around the outside.

Tentatively, with a little thrill of excitement not unlike that I felt after the last dance on my prom night, years ago, I gently inserted the key in the lock at the center of the clock and began turning it. Yes, it was definitely a clock now. Apparently it was meant to lie flat, rather than hang on a wall.

Things began happening quickly. I noticed that one of the dolls in the inner row was missing its lid, revealing a smaller doll inside, with tiny, jointed arms and hands. The next one in the row suddenly took off its lid, with tiny mechanical hands and passed its lid to the lidless one next to it. This process repeated itself another forty or so times, then the lidless doll in the middle ring was suddenly handed a lid, by its neighbor.

I have been sitting, watching, in rapt fascination for four hours now.