The workshop smelled of oil and warm metal, a scent that clung to clothes and hands alike.
Steam from the vents outside drifted through the open door, carrying the faint hiss of passing trams and the distant echo of airship engines. Dust motes floated in the golden afternoon light that spilled through the windows, lingering like tiny lanterns over the benches.
Edrin adjusted the strap on his mechanical leg, testing the balance as he stepped carefully toward the bench. Henry was already there, examining a gear housing with an intense frown that made the wrinkles on his forehead stand out like etched lines in brass.
Lilia moved around the room, humming quietly as she sorted tiny springs into labeled boxes.
"Try not to drop them this time," Henry said, tossing Edrin a small bolt. "These are delicate, not cannonballs."
Edrin caught it awkwardly on the first attempt, but managed to tuck it into the correct tray.
"Not a cannonball," he muttered under his breath, smiling faintly.
Lilia glanced over, tilting her head. "Careful, Edrin. Henry doesn't hand these out often."
"You'll get used to it," Henry added without looking up, tightening a screw on the gear assembly. "Or you won't. Either way, keep your fingers intact."
The morning moved with a quiet rhythm. Customers filtered in and out—an elderly woman with a dented automaton hand, a boy delivering a broken monocle, a man whose elbow joint had seized. Edrin followed Henry and Lilia's motions, carrying tools, holding parts steady, and learning the subtleties of handling delicate metal and springs.
"Here," Lilia said softly, handing him a thin brass rod. "Slide it through gently. Don't bend it."
Edrin concentrated, guiding the rod as instructed. It fit perfectly. Lilia's small smile was a rare reward, and he felt the warmth of it settle quietly over him.
"See? Not bad for a day one apprentice," she added, stepping back.
Henry gave a grunt that could have been a laugh. "You're learning the basics faster than most. Don't let it go to your head, though."
"Don't worry," Edrin replied, brushing soot from his hands.
—-
Later, after the morning rush, Henry motioned for Edrin to help with a larger repair. A client had brought in a mechanical arm that had been bent in half. The intricate gears were warped, and some of the pistons were stuck.
"Careful now," Henry said. "This one's older than the kid, probably older than me."
Edrin leaned in, steadying a part as Henry adjusted a gear. Lilia moved around him, holding tools just where he might need them. "Here, try the clamp," she said. He took it and positioned it carefully.
Henry observed him silently, then nodded. "Not bad. You've got a steady hand when you focus."
"I… I'm trying," Edrin said, aware that his new leg was still slightly stiff, every motion deliberate.
Lilia hummed softly, guiding his fingers as he fitted the smallest spring into the wrist joint. When it clicked into place, Henry muttered, "Finally. About time the kid did something right."
Edrin felt the faintest twitch of pride, but it didn't linger. Instead, he focused on the next step, feeling the rhythm of work settle around him—the hum of steam vents, the faint hiss of the forge, the clatter of tools, and the soft, occasional hum of Lilia's voice.
—-
By midday, the workshop felt full and alive. Henry was negotiating a deal with a client over a faulty boiler valve, his voice low and gruff but confident. Lilia moved between benches, organizing parts, catching a misplaced spring before it rolled to the floor.
Edrin followed along, fetching a tool, holding a panel steady, or cleaning pieces.
Henry glanced over. "Careful with that one, Edrin. It's brittle."
"I got it," Edrin said, adjusting his grip.
"Good," Henry replied. "Now don't snap it.
You're not covered under my insurance."
Lilia smiled faintly, brushing her fingers over a polished brass plate. "You're doing fine. Don't let him scare you."
"I… I won't," Edrin said, a little breathless from concentration.
Afternoon passed slowly, marked by the rhythm of work and small, quiet conversations. Lilia hummed while organizing small screws, and Henry muttered advice or criticism, sometimes both at once.
Occasionally, he'd give Edrin a nod of approval when he adjusted a part correctly or caught a dropped bolt.
Between tasks, there were brief pauses. Edrin watched the sunlight shift across the workshop floor, highlighting the particles of dust that hung in the air like tiny stars.
Outside, steam from the vents curled along the cobblestones. A tram whistle echoed distantly. The hum of machinery, punctuated by occasional clinks and hisses, created a rhythm that was almost comforting.
At one point, Lilia handed him a small, half-disassembled automaton hand. "Think you can reattach this finger?" she asked.
Edrin nodded, careful with the tiny screws and springs. "I'll try."
"Good," she said, smiling faintly. "I'll guide you if it gets tricky."
He worked slowly, following her instructions. She adjusted his fingers lightly when he misaligned a spring, and he learned to feel the correct tension through her subtle guidance.
By the time it was complete, the hand moved smoothly, and Lilia's smile was wide.
"Not bad," she said. "You're catching on faster than I expected."
Henry glanced over from the forge. "Finally. About time the kid proved useful again."
Edrin chuckled, but it was quiet, soft—a sound that blended into the rhythm of the workshop. He felt… safe. Not in the way a bed or a door could give, but in the rhythm of people around him who knew what they were doing and let him be part of it.
—-
Shadows stretched long across the benches. Henry set down his tools and wiped his hands with a rag. "Alright," he said. "That's enough for today. Clean up, then meet us for dinner."
Edrin moved about, sweeping shavings into the bin, organizing small pieces, and finally setting his tools back in the drawer. Lilia moved beside him, polishing the brass fittings on the shelves.
"You've done well today," she said softly, pausing to glance at him.
—-
Dinner was quiet but comfortable. The small kitchen smelled of stew and baking bread. Lilia set the table carefully, while Henry brought over bowls of steaming food.
Edrin sat down, careful not to bump the mechanical leg against the table leg. Lilia handed him a wooden spoon. "Eat," she said, lightly teasing. "You look like you'll starve otherwise."
He smiled faintly and began to eat, noticing how natural it felt to sit at the table with them, to share this simple routine after months of confusion and newness. Henry's gruff instructions on seasoning the stew felt almost like a performance, and Lilia's quiet presence made the room warmer, softer, steadier.
After a while, Henry leaned back in his chair. "Tomorrow, more work. Boiler valves, automaton repairs. You'll keep pace, I hope?"
"I'll try," Edrin said, sipping the broth.
"Good," Henry replied, a faint smirk appearing. "Can't have the kid falling behind before the week even ends."
Lilia laughed softly. "He's not falling behind,"
she said. "He's catching up, at his own pace."
Edrin caught her gaze and gave a small nod. He felt a quiet sense of belonging—not through words or declarations, but in shared tasks, in small jokes, in the steady rhythm of daily life with people who had taken him in.
Night fell, the glow from the streetlamps outside filtering through the kitchen window.
Steam curled along the rooftops, drifting slowly, a gentle reminder of the city beyond. Edrin finished his meal, placed his bowl in the sink, and stood quietly for a moment, listening to the hum of pipes and the occasional hiss of the workshop below.
Henry and Lilia moved about, shutting down lights, putting away utensils, and tidying the small kitchen. Edrin mirrored their motions, letting his hands follow the familiar rhythm, feeling it settle in his bones. The warmth of the room, the quiet diligence of the two people who had made space for him, and the familiar creak of the floorboards beneath his mechanical leg made him feel tethered—anchored in a world that had once been entirely unfamiliar.
When the kitchen was finally still, Edrin retreated to his small room upstairs. He sank onto the bed, letting the weight of the day press pleasantly into his muscles. The faint hum of the workshop below, the distant whistle of trams, and the soft creak of pipes became a lullaby, wrapping the room in a steady, comforting rhythm.
Then, without warning, the watch strapped to his wrist began to glow. At first, it was subtle, a pale green shimmer across the etched metal. Within seconds, the glow intensified, bathing the room in a strange, almost ethereal light. A mist, luminous and green, seemed to rise from the watch, weaving silently around his arm before seeping into his skin.
Edrin didn't notice it immediately, lost in the quiet fatigue of the day. By the time the realization came, the glow had merged into him, vanishing as though it had never existed—unnoticed by anyone else, leaving the room in soft shadows once more.