The morning wind slipped through the gaps in the alley, whistling against the rusted tin sheets like a broken flute.
The air was still damp against Pain’s cheeks.
The heat of the market hadn’t reached this deep yet.
Instead, the sharp tang of oxidizing iron and the scent of rotting wood settled in the back of his nose.

Pain skipped over a puddle at his feet.
Crunch.
Gravel ground beneath his boots as he landed.

Ahead, Jack’s back blocked the view—a moving wall of muscle.
In this dim alley, he looked like a walking boulder.
Jack took long, decisive strides, stepping over trash without a second glance.

Pain looked back.
Salt walked a few paces behind.
She moved carefully, avoiding the cracks in the paving stones as if playing a secret game.
Her footsteps were light, rolling over the pebbles like marbles.
Silence followed her.

"This way."

Jack spoke shortly, jerking his chin toward a side path.

They turned the corner, diving into a lane where the sun refused to go.
Water dripped from overhead pipes.
Pain hunched his shoulders.
A cold drop hit his neck and crawled down his spine.

At the very end of the dead end, a small door clung to the wall.
The sign above was blackened, as if charred by fire.
Only the skeletal remains of the word REPAIR were legible.
The hinges were lumps of red rust.
One kick would probably shatter the wood, but warm, orange light leaked through the cracks in the boards.

Jack rapped his knuckles against the wood.
Thud, thud.
A hard, bone-heavy sound.

Inside, something clattered.
A moment later, the door groaned open with a rasping scream.

"Well. If it isn't Jack."

The voice sounded like dry branches rubbing together.

An old woman poked her head out.
Her back was bent at a near-perfect right angle.
Her grey hair was thin, and her shawl was a map of oil stains.
But buried deep in the wrinkles of her face, her eyes shone sharp as glass beads.

"What sort of trouble have you brought me today?"

"The trouble is standing behind me. I’m here for a job."

Jack hooked a thumb over his shoulder.

Pain met the old woman’s gaze and waved his hand high.

"Hello, Grandma. I’m harmless. Probably."

"‘Probably’ is the word I trust the least."

The old woman laughed, a dry hacking sound in her throat.
The wrinkles on her cheeks folded like an accordion.
She wasn't overly friendly, but the air around her didn't bite.
The damp gloom of the alley seemed to dry out just a little.

Salt peered from behind the doorframe, watching the woman.
No fear showed in her face.
Her eyes traced the complex knitting of the woman’s shawl and the warped shape of the door handle, studying them like a rare species of beetle.

"Oh my... quiet child, isn't she? Like a mouse in the pantry."

Salt blinked at the words and tightened her grip on the strap of her bag.

"Well, come in. I won't turn away anyone with Jack."

The three stepped through the open door.

The smell of thick oil and old dust rushed into Pain’s nose.

The shop was a graveyard of time.
Shelves covered every inch of the walls, packed tight with clocks that had stopped breathing, shattered lenses, and brass parts of unknown purpose.

A naked bulb swung from the ceiling, casting weak shadows.
Dust motes danced in the light, glittering as they drifted.

Jack hooked a round stool with his foot and dragged it closer.
He pulled a cloth bundle from his pocket.
The oily fabric fell away to reveal an old silver pocket watch.

The case was worn smooth, and a spiderweb crack marred the glass.

"Can you fix it?"

The old woman extended a bony hand and pinched the watch.
She brought it to her ear and shook it.

Clack.

The dry sound of a loose part tumbling inside reached Pain’s ears.

"...It's old. The heart has stopped."

"Heart?"

Pain blurted out the word.

"Machines have lives too, boy. Especially when they’re soaked in their owner’s stubbornness."

She swept a pile of junk off the workbench and slid a knife under the back cover of the watch.

Pop.

The lid sprang open.

Pain leaned in.
A maze of gears and springs packed the inside.
But something was wrong. A tiny piece had come loose, lost in a pool of blackened oil.

"Ah... this is a nuisance. The clasp has flown off."

She strapped a loupe to her eye and picked up a pair of tweezers.
But her fingertips trembled.
Every time she tried to pinch the microscopic part, the tweezers snapped at empty air.

Just watching her made Pain’s skin itch.

"Dammit, my eyes are blurring..."

Ping.

The tweezers slipped.
A screw smaller than a grain of rice skittered across the workbench.

"I got it!"

Pain’s hand shot out.
Speed was his specialty.

But just before his fingers made contact, his sleeve snagged on a file.

Clatter.

A screwdriver crashed to the floor.

"Oops..."

"Sit down. Don't touch anything."

Jack sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion.

He reached out with his own thick fingers.
But Jack’s hands were forged for violence.
His fingertips were calloused pads of leather.

He didn't look like he was picking up a screw; he looked like he was trying to pick up a bean with a log.

Pain bit the inside of his cheek to keep from laughing.

"...Tch. Too small."

Jack clicked his tongue and pulled his hand back.

From beside him, a pale, slender hand extended.

Without a sound.

Salt.

She rested her fingertips on the edge of the workbench.
With her thumb and forefinger, she pinched the rolling screw.

No hesitation.
No shaking.

It was a natural motion, as if she were plucking a flower that had always been there.

"Oh..."

The old woman’s eye widened behind the loupe.

Wordlessly, Salt held the screw out to the tip of the woman’s tweezers.

"...Thank you. Can you handle that spring too?"

The woman pointed with her chin.

Salt nodded once.

She used the very tips of her nails to lift a spring so fine it was barely visible.

Pain saw her breath stop.

A quiet, absolute focus settled over her, engaging only the muscles in her fingers.

She lowered it into the watch's gut.

Click.

It settled into its home.

Pain exchanged a look with Jack.

"Hey, did you see that? Her hand didn't shake at all."

"Wow... I would have sneezed and blown the whole thing away," Pain whispered.

He knew himself. He would have used too much force and sent the spring into orbit.

The old woman pressed down on the part Salt had placed, securing it with a tool.

Salt watched the woman’s hands closely.
Before the woman could ask, Salt’s fingers were already moving, sorting the next required part and handing it over.

No words passed between them.

On the workbench, the old woman’s trembling hands and Salt’s still hands meshed in a strange rhythm.

The smell of oil and the faint friction of metal filled the shop.

"...Yes, right there. You have good fingers, girl."

The woman muttered it like a soliloquy.

Salt’s hands didn't stop.
She didn't seem to understand the mechanics.
She just saw "shape" and "shape," sensing how the puzzle pieces fit together.

Finally, the old woman tightened the last screw.

She wound the crown.

Tick, tick, tick...

A small, steady heartbeat began to pulse.

"It moved...!"

Pain leaned forward.

Salt let out a small breath, hoo, and her shoulders dropped.

She unconsciously tried to wipe the black oil on her fingertips onto her skirt—
then froze, realizing what she was doing.

It was funny enough to make Pain smile.

The old woman took off the loupe, looking satisfied.

"You saved me. Without you, I’d be here until sunset."

She flashed a toothy grin at Salt.

Salt ducked her head, shrinking slightly.
She stared at her own hands, rubbing her thumb and forefinger together as if the cold memory of the metal still lingered there.

Jack placed the payment on the counter.

"Huh. ...Unexpected talent."

Salt’s shoulders twitched at Jack’s voice.

She looked unsure if she was being praised or teased, her eyes darting between Jack’s thick logs and her own slender fingers.

"God is fair, isn't He?"

The old woman laughed, counting the coins.

"Ideally, the small hands that do the work quietly are far more useful than the big men who take up all the space."

"...My ears are burning."

"I don't have fat fingers. I just have too much energy."

Pain cracked the joke, and the tension in the shop loosened into something soft.

Salt saw it too.
The corners of her mouth lifted just a fraction.

When they stepped outside, the wind had picked up.

Sunlight pierced the clouds, turning the puddles in the alley into pools of white fire.

Pain walked with his hands held up to the sky.
Scars and calluses covered his palms.
Nothing like Salt’s.

"Hey, Salt. Next time I lose a button, can I ask you? When I try to sew, I just end up stabbing myself."

Salt looked up at him.
She nodded once.

The tension was gone from her face.
A faint color—something like pride—had taken its place.

Jack spoke without looking back.

"Don't get carried away. She's not your maid."

"Why not? It's give-and-take. I reach the high stuff, Salt handles the tiny stuff."

"...You tried to reach something high once and pulled the whole shelf down."

"That shelf was weak! It wasn't my fault!"

Their banter echoed off the alley walls.

Salt listened to their voices.

Pain saw her hand gently close into a fist again.

The sensation of "being able."
The reality of being useful, even without words.

It must have been ticking inside her chest now, small and steady like the second hand of that watch.

Pain skipped over another puddle.
Three shadows dissolved into the noise of the market.
Their footsteps overlapped, creating a clumsy, uneven rhythm as they faded into the distance.