Morning seeped into the workshop through the glass panels of the front windows, pale and diffused by the city's ever-present steam.
Shafts of light wandered through the drifting haze, catching on the dust that hung in the air like faint glitter. Somewhere beyond the walls, the hum of engines rose and fell, steady as breath.
Edrin adjusted the strap on his new leg, the faint hiss of hydraulics marking every small movement. The limb still felt foreign—balanced but deliberate, every step needing thought. Henry had told him it would take weeks before it felt natural. He believed it.
At the workbench, the smell of oil and copper filled the air. The counters were crowded with tools: screwdrivers, clamps, a half-assembled gear housing. Lilia moved quietly between the tables, sorting parts into small wooden boxes labeled with chalk: Bolts (fine), Springs (small), Brass teeth (spare).
Henry stood by the front counter, leaning on his elbow as the first customer of the day came in—a man with a dented automaton arm and impatience in his voice.
"Morning, Wren," the man grumbled, tapping the metal limb against the counter. "Thing's locking up again. Can't even grip a wrench without it clicking like a rat trap."
Henry made a sound that wasn't quite a laugh. "That's what happens when you don't oil the joints for half a season."
The man scowled. "You charge enough, you could oil it for me."
"Then you'd never learn."
Edrin watched as Henry pulled a small toolkit from under the counter and motioned for him to come closer. "You. Grab me the thin wrench, left drawer, top."
He obeyed quickly. The drawer was cluttered with tools of all shapes and purposes—half of them with no name he knew. When he handed over the wrench, Henry gave a short nod, then turned the customer's arm over and loosened a gear near the elbow.
Edrin leaned in, curious. The inside of the arm gleamed—a nest of brass wheels and tubing, fine as clockwork veins. The sound of metal shifting under metal was oddly satisfying, rhythmic. Henry adjusted a few connections, then reached for a vial of oil.
"See this?" he said quietly, half to himself.
"Too dry. Friction builds up, heat follows, then crack." He glanced at Edrin. "Never forget that. Everything breaks the same way—too much strain, not enough care."
Edrin nodded. Henry noticed. He always did.
—-
By midday, the workshop was alive with motion. Someone came in with a broken furnace valve, another with a bent monocle frame that needed its lenses reset. The doorbell jingled every few minutes, letting in short bursts of the street—the clatter of boots, the murmur of voices, the low groan of a tram sliding down the rails outside.
Edrin handled the lighter tasks: cleaning bolts, fetching tools, refitting screws that didn't require precision. He moved slower than most apprentices, but Henry never rushed him.
Once, when a part slipped from his grasp and clinked to the floor, the older man just said, "You'll get the touch in time," and went back to his work.
Lilia would occasionally pass him something to sort or polish, her motions smooth and practiced. She hummed quietly as she worked—a tune without words, fading in and out beneath the noise of the shop.
—-
By the time evening crept closer, the air had thickened with the scent of metal dust and burnt oil. Henry wiped his hands on a rag and leaned back against the counter, watching as Edrin locked away the finished parts into their drawers.
"That's enough for today," Henry said. "Good work keeping pace. You didn't even trip over that fancy leg of yours once."
Edrin gave a faint smile. "Not yet, anyway."
"That's the spirit."
The man turned toward the far shelf, rummaging for something. Tools clinked, boxes shuffled. Then he straightened, holding a small object between two fingers.
It was a watch.
Not like the simple wind-up ones Edrin had seen in markets—it was heavier, shaped from silvered brass, its surface etched with markings that shimmered faintly under the light. The glass was scuffed, but the face beneath was intricate: two rotating rings instead of hands, their centers turning at different speeds. At its heart, something pulsed faintly, a slow rhythm like a heartbeat caught in metal.
Henry set it on the counter. "Found this one on a salvage run," he said. "Out past the eastern rails, near the old towers. Place was half sunk in soot and wind. Not much worth taking, but this caught my eye. Doesn't tick like a normal one, though."
Edrin stepped closer. The watch drew him in—the way its light caught, the almost living hum he thought he heard when he leaned near. "Does it still work?"
Henry shrugged. "Define 'work.' It moves, but not by time I'd trust. Keeps its own rhythm, I guess."
He slid it across the counter. "If you like it, take it. I'm not one for trinkets."
Edrin blinked, surprised. "You sure?"
"Consider it a reward. You've been useful." Henry smirked faintly. "And you're not half bad company, either."
Edrin picked up the watch. It was cold, the chill sinking into his palm like water. The surface seemed to vibrate faintly under his fingers, though it might've just been his imagination. When he pressed the small latch on the side, the rings shifted, and for a brief second the light in the workshop dimmed—as if the air had paused. Then it was gone.
Henry didn't seem to notice. He was already packing away his tools. "Lilia, close up shop. Let's not have another rat sneaking in after dark."
She nodded and started drawing the curtains.
Edrin turned the watch over once more before slipping it into his pocket. Outside, the city's steam rose in soft waves, curling past the window until the streetlamps turned them gold. The faint whistle of the trams carried through the walls—a lullaby of gears and wind.
When Henry finally turned off the last lamp, the workshop sank into half-darkness.
"Get some rest," he said. "We start early tomorrow. Someone's bringing in a busted boiler, and I'll need your hands."
Edrin nodded.
He limped slightly on his way upstairs. The metal leg clanked faintly, echoing through the narrow hall. In his room, the small window showed the night—fog-heavy, with the faint red pulse of distant engines across the skyline.
He sat on the edge of his bed and took out the watch again. The glow from it was barely visible now, just a faint line circling its edge. Yet it felt alive—not mechanical, but aware.
He turned it over once more, listening.
Somewhere deep within its core, the sound came again: not a tick, not a hum—something closer to a heartbeat muffled in brass.
Edrin placed it on the bedside table, unsure why he hesitated before letting go. The light caught the edge of it one last time, faint and steady.
He leaned back, eyes half open, watching the steam drift past the window.
The city breathed, and somewhere below, the watch kept time no one else could read.