When I wake, the ceiling above me isn't the one from the shed. It's smoother, lined with metal beams and faint copper piping. A dull hum travels through the walls — steady, mechanical, like the heartbeat of the city itself.
My whole body feels heavy. My mouth is dry. And when I try to move…
A hiss echoes from below me. Something tightens around my right thigh.
For a second, panic grips me. My eyes shoot open fully now — I pull myself up, and that's when I see it.
The leg.
Polished steel, dark brass fittings, and a web of tiny gears moving with quiet precision. Steam slips out from a vent near the knee.
It's not flesh.
It's not mine.
I freeze. The realization crashes through my chest, and for a moment I can't breathe. I move it — slowly — and the thing responds. The foot clicks softly against the wooden floor, almost too smooth.
The door creaks. I flinch, but it's just Lilia.
"Oh—you're awake," she says, stepping in with a tray. The smell of soup hits me before her words do. "Good. We weren't sure when you'd come to."
Her tone is calm, practiced. Like she's done this before.
"Where… am I?" My voice is rough, almost breaking. "What happened?"
She sets the tray on a small table near the bed and folds her arms. "You passed out right after the operation. It's been two days. You're at our home — right beside the workshop."
"Operation…" I look down again. The leg gleams faintly in the light. "You—Henry—cut it off?"
Lilia hesitates before nodding. "It was that or let the infection take you. You made the choice."
I try to remember. The pain, the heat in my thigh, Henry's voice — 'You better not scream, kid…' Then everything fades into white.
Now I'm here.
"How's it feel?" she asks quietly, glancing at the leg.
"Wrong," I mutter. "Too light. Too… alive."
She gives a small shrug. "That's normal. The nerves take time to sync with the core. You'll get used to it."
The door opens again, and Henry steps in, smelling faintly of oil and smoke. He looks at me, eyes scanning me up and down. "Good. You didn't die."
"Nice to see you too," I manage to say.
He snorts, moving closer. "Don't get mouthy yet. You're still half-crippled. That leg's fresh out of the line — you'll need to train it. And me, I don't train half-dead kids."
Lilia rolls her eyes. "He means you'll start walking again tomorrow. Slowly."
"Tomorrow?" I echo.
"Yeah." Henry crosses his arms. "You've been lying there long enough. City doesn't slow down for anyone, not even you."
He turns to leave, but pauses in the doorway. "And kid—when you stand again, don't look at that leg like it's the enemy. It's the reason you're still breathing."
The door closes behind him, leaving the faint hiss of pipes filling the silence.
Lilia sits down at the edge of the bed, adjusting her gloves. "He means well," she says softly. "Just… rough around the edges."
I glance at her, then at the leg again. "I don't even know what this place is."
She tilts her head. "You don't remember?"
I shake my head slowly. "No. I woke up in a shed, then wandered until I found the workshop. Everything since then feels like someone else's dream."
Her expression softens, but she doesn't pry. "Then maybe it's better to start fresh," she says. "Rest today. Tomorrow, you'll walk. After that — we'll see what kind of worker you can be."
She stands, picks up the tray, and pauses at the door. "Eat before it gets cold. And try not to stare at it too much — the more you think about it, the harder it'll be to move."
When she leaves, I look back at the metal limb again. It's quiet now, almost peaceful — but I can feel something beneath the surface.
Heat. Energy. A strange pulse that hums faintly in rhythm with my heartbeat.
I flex my foot. The metal responds. Smoothly. Precisely.
Then, from somewhere outside, I hear it — the sound of the city.
Hissing pipes. The rumble of distant engines. Voices carried by steam.
It's alive out there, breathing through iron lungs and brass arteries.
I pull myself toward the window, one hand gripping the edge of the bedframe. Outside, the skyline burns faint orange under a cloudy sky. Towers stretch upward, their spires spitting plumes of white smoke into the air.
Airships drift lazily between them, their shadows gliding across the cobblestone streets below.
A faint drizzle hits the glass, and the droplets trace narrow paths down the pane.
Somewhere, a whistle sounds — long and deep, like the sigh of some mechanical giant.
I rest my head against the cool window frame and whisper, "Where am I?"
No answer comes — just the sound of the city breathing.
The leg hisses again, a small puff of steam escaping near my knee.
For the first time since I woke up, I don't flinch.
Maybe Henry was right.
Maybe this thing is the reason I'm alive.
And maybe, in this city of smoke and steel… I'll need it more than I realize.
—-
I wake to the sound of footsteps in the hall—two sets, one heavier and measured, the other lighter and quicker. The door creaks and Henry's silhouette fills the frame first, oil on his hands, that permanent frown softened by the morning light. Lilia peeks just behind him, tray balanced in her hands, hair already tucked back like she does every morning.
"All right, kid—come down," Henry calls before he's even in the room. His voice rumbles across the floorboards. "You're going to eat before you do anything, 'cause you're gonna die of starvation otherwise, and I wouldn't want that after I saved you."
He gives me one last, searching look, then turns and starts down the steps. They echo and fade into the kitchen below. Lilia follows more slowly, glancing back as she reaches the doorway. Her face is almost amused—part concern, part exasperation.
"Oh—yeah," she says, brow tilting as if she's remembered something important. "We totally forgot to ask—what was your name again, kid?"
I try to clear my throat. My mouth is dry. For a moment I panic—names feel heavy, like a rope I'm supposed to grab and hold. Then it comes out, slow and careful.
"Uh… right. I… forgot to tell you. My name is H—" I stop, hands trembling. "H-Edrin Thalen," I stammer, the syllables awkward on my tongue. Saying it aloud makes it feel more real, like a stamp.
Lilia's eyebrows lift a little. "Edrin," she repeats, testing it. It rolls off my tongue like a small promise. "That suits you." She gives a quick, approving nod. "Welcome home, Edrin."
Henry grunts from below. "Don't dawdle up there like a ghost. Food won't wait for a name ceremony."