Mending

A metal bird once found my workshop. Her beak rapped hard on the window. Her eyes held a curiosity shared only by the young. The etching on her wings was carved by a hand both strong and delicate. She and all her secrets fit snugly in my palm.

Her chirp was a rasp. One wing had an awkward bend to it. She hopped with a limp. I knew of no other artificer for a hundred leagues, so I got to work. I tapped the wing back into form. I replaced the copper strings in the vocal box, careful not to let any snap. The clockwork inside was of a like as I’d never seen, intricate and beautiful. A gear was missing a tooth, which accounted for the limp. I replaced it with one from an old timepiece.

When I’d finished, she chirped her thanks and left through the same window.

She returned many times. At first, it was only when she needed a repair. I tended to her gears and polished her casing. On one rainy day, she hopped through my front door without need for repair. She stayed awhile and watched me work. I set out a warm oil bath for her. She splashed and chirped and hummed her content. When the rain cleared, she left.

I refilled the oil bath every day. Some days she would come. Some days she stayed in that great, wide elsewhere.

There was a day when the world treated her terribly. Her casing was scratched. One leg ended at a ragged edge. Her eyes flickered with fear. I got to work. I spent a day and a night on her repairs. I worked until my eyes burned and my fingers trembled. I worked without pause until morning light bled across my worktable.

When I’d finished, her chirp was frail but assured. Her eyes were steady. She hummed long and slow. For the first time since I’d known her, she fell asleep in my hand.

She sits in the bath every day. She enjoys the sun. She enjoys sitting on my shoulder while I work. Some days she leaves for an hour or two, but she always comes home. And I am always at my worktable, waiting for her.