She walked into his little shop, dragging a finger across a dust settled surface, leaving a dirt free trail.  Sun rays shot through the few clean portions of windows, providing enough light to see the man that sat in the corner, tinkering away.  “We’re closed” he exclaimed, never lifting his head from his desk.  The sign on the front door had not shown “open” for a long time, but it was not enough to deter the patron as she approached, holding out an item in her hands to the man’s back, as if to present it to him.

She hesitated, “it’s broken.”

When there was no response, the woman stepped over to the side of the work bench and place the item on the table.  It wasn’t for a few minutes until the patron moved, unsure if the man even looked up from his tinkering to see what she had placed down.  But before she could take the item back, the man reached over to a small chest in the corner of his table, dug his hand through a few knick-knacks and pulled out what looked like an old clock.  It didn’t make a sound, however.  He moved quickly to salvage some parts from it, simultaneously taking the trinket left by the woman who now sat in wait on a stool by the door.  A few twists and turns and a loud ticking sound began resonating the tiny space from the tiny piece.





Walk into my machinarium, and show me your broken heart.

I will open my chest to salvage the parts that were left behind long ago.

I promise to do my best to fix yours.


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