Jett's POV
Garran's workshop smelled different without him.
I noticed it the morning after I decided to keep it.
Oil.
Smoke.
Old wood.
Iron.
And something else I couldn't name.
Maybe that was just him.
For seventeen years, the workshop had been the closest thing I had to a home.
Now it was mine.
I wasn't sure whether that made me lucky or cursed.
Probably both.
I stood in the doorway and looked at the mess.
Broken tools covered the benches.
Half-finished repairs sat beneath dusty cloths.
Chains hung from the walls.
Knives, axes, hinges, farming tools, lamps, buckles, pots, locks—
Garran fixed almost anything.
People used to joke that if you brought him a broken wagon wheel, he'd somehow return it with an extra wheel.
He always told them that wasn't how repairs worked.
Then he'd quietly fix something completely unrelated for free.
That was Garran.
I walked to his main workbench.
His tools were still there.
Hammer.
Pliers.
Files.
Screwdrivers.
Small chisels.
Things I'd used a thousand times.
I picked up his hammer.
It felt heavier than I remembered.
Or maybe my hand felt lighter.
I put it down.
The silence in the workshop pressed against me.
"You're still here."
I turned.
Mara stood in the doorway.
She held a broken lantern.
"Thought you might fix this."
I looked at it.
"You could buy another."
"I could."
She placed it on the bench.
"I'd rather have this one."
I understood.
It wasn't about the lantern.
It was something Garran had made.
Maybe he'd repaired it years ago.
Maybe he'd given it to her.
People had started bringing me his things.
Broken tools.
Locks.
Kitchen knives.
Lanterns.
Anything they'd once brought to Garran.
I didn't know whether they believed I could do it.
Maybe they just wanted part of him to remain.
I picked up the lantern.
"Come back tomorrow."
Mara smiled faintly.
"Take your time."
She left.
I looked at the lantern.
Simple problem.
The hinge was bent.
The oil chamber was cracked.
The wick mechanism was stuck.
I had fixed dozens of them.
I reached for my tools.
Then stopped.
Something felt wrong.
Not with the lantern.
With me.
I turned it over.
There were tiny markings beneath the base.
I'd never seen them before.
Seven lines around a circle.
Again.
I touched them.
Nothing happened.
Good.
I opened the lantern.
The pieces came apart easily.
Too easily.
I knew exactly what to do.
I replaced the hinge.
Adjusted the wick.
Sealed the crack with resin.
Then I noticed the inner chamber.
There was a small metal plate inside.
I had no idea what it was for.
I removed it.
Underneath was a narrow slot.
A gear should have been there.
But there wasn't one.
I stared at the empty space.
Something inside my head whispered:
Turn the plate.
I froze.
"What?"
I looked around.
Nobody was there.
The thought came again.
Turn it.
I rotated the plate.
A tiny click sounded.
The lantern unfolded.
Not opened.
Unfolded.
Metal sections slid apart with perfect precision.
A thin ring of blue light appeared around the chamber.
I nearly dropped it.
I stepped backward.
The light vanished.
The lantern snapped shut.
I stared at it.
My heart was pounding.
I had never seen anything like it.
I touched the mechanism again.
Nothing happened.
I opened the lantern normally.
Everything looked ordinary.
Except for one thing.
A tiny gear sat inside.
I hadn't put it there.
I picked it up.
It was warm.
I knew that gear.
Not because I'd seen it before.
Because I knew how it was made.
The thought appeared in my mind before I could stop it.
"Three-to-one ratio. Copper teeth. Reinforced central pin."
I blinked.
Why did I know that?
I placed the gear on the bench.
Then I realized something worse.
I'd already started making another one.
My hands were moving.
I had taken a piece of brass from the scrap box.
I was cutting it.
Grinding it.
Shaping it.
My fingers knew exactly where to cut.
I stopped.
The workshop went silent.
I stared at my hands.
"I don't know how to do this."
But my hands did.
I finished the gear.
It fit perfectly.
I stepped away from the bench.
I felt sick.
Garran had taught me how to repair ordinary things.
He had never taught me this.
I searched the workshop.
I opened drawers.
Checked cabinets.
Looked beneath benches.
Nothing.
Then I remembered the locked room.
Garran's room.
I hadn't entered since he died.
I stood outside the door for almost a minute.
The key was still in my pocket.
I had found it beside his body.
I put it into the lock.
Click.
The door opened.
Dust filled the air.
The room was smaller than I'd imagined.
A bed.
A desk.
A shelf.
A locked chest.
No photographs.
No family portraits.
Nothing personal.
That surprised me.
Garran had spent seventeen years raising me.
Yet there was almost nothing in the room that proved I had ever been part of his life.
I opened the desk.
Inside were papers.
Receipts.
Maps.
Notes about customers.
Then I found a notebook.
Black cover.
No title.
I opened it.
The first pages were filled with ordinary repair notes.
Wheel measurements.
Blade angles.
Metal temperatures.
Then the writing changed.
The handwriting became rushed.
Uneven.
Fearful.
I read the first sentence.
He repaired the lantern without being taught.
My stomach dropped.
I turned the page.
Age seven. Same with the broken clock.
Another page.
Age nine. He recognized a mechanism from the Old Bones. I told him it was a toy. He believed me.
I stopped breathing.
I turned another page.
Age twelve. He asked why I never taught him how to make the gears. I lied.
Another.
He is remembering.
I closed the book.
"No."
My voice sounded strange.
I opened it again.
The next page contained only one sentence.
If he starts repairing what was lost, they will find him.
A floorboard creaked behind me.
I spun around.
Nothing.
I grabbed the knife from my belt.
The room was empty.
Then I heard it.
A soft mechanical clicking.
From beneath the floor.
I crouched.
There was a loose board beneath Garran's desk.
I pulled it up.
A narrow compartment had been carved underneath.
Inside was a collection of objects.
Broken.
Ancient.
Unfamiliar.
A metal sphere.
A cracked piece of glass.
Three small gears.
A black stone.
And a device that looked like a clock with no hands.
I picked up the clock.
My fingers knew what to do.
I rotated the outer ring.
Click.
The device opened.
Blue light filled the room.
A projection appeared above it.
A city.
The same city from my memories.
White towers.
Floating bridges.
Glowing streets.
People moving beneath enormous structures.
I stepped backward.
The image flickered.
Then I heard a voice.
Garran's voice.
A recording.
"If you're seeing this, I'm already dead."
My throat tightened.
The projection continued.
"I hoped you would never find this."
The image changed.
A younger Garran stood beside a small child.
The child was me.
Except—
I wasn't looking at the camera.
I was repairing something.
A machine.
Something impossibly complex.
My hands moved across its surface.
The same way they had moved that morning.
The recording continued.
"You weren't taught these things, Jett."
Garran paused.
"You remembered them."
The projection disappeared.
The workshop became dark.
I stared at the empty air.
For seventeen years, I had believed Garran taught me how to survive.
Hunting.
Trapping.
Repairing.
Fighting.
But maybe that wasn't the whole truth.
Maybe some of the things I knew had been inside me long before I met him.
I looked at the lantern on the workbench.
Then at the strange devices hidden beneath the floor.
Then toward the Greywood.
Blue light flickered between the trees.
The same lights I'd seen the night before.
I clenched my fists.
If Garran had known what I was—
Why had he never told me?
And what exactly had I been before he found me?
The answer was somewhere in the workshop.
I knew it.
I could feel it.
And for the first time, I wasn't afraid of finding it.
I was afraid that I already knew.