Therapy Bits

The old mechanic’s hands shook as he tightened the last bolt. Not from age—though time had carved him deep—but from knowing what he’d built wasn’t a machine at all.

In the corner of the dim garage, the thing opened its eyes. Not headlights. Eyes. They flickered with a pale blue fire, scanning the grease-stained walls, the rows of rusting wrenches, and finally the man who had given it form.

“Father?” it asked, voice soft, wires still humming beneath its chestplate.

The mechanic wiped his hands on a rag, leaving streaks of black on already-black fabric. He thought of the years he’d spent fixing broken engines, patching up things that had been used and discarded. Tonight, he hadn’t repaired—he had created.

He swallowed, the word catching in his throat.

“Yes.”

Mechanic – Word of the Day Challenge