The forge had settled into its midnight heartbeat. Coals breathed under ash. Tools cooled in orderly ranks. From the street, the village sounded like a creature that had curled up and gone still, save for a lone cart wheel clicking twice as it rolled past a loose stone and the whisper of wind along the eaves.
John sat at the worktable with the ledger open and a blank sheet angled beneath the lamplight. His pencil hovered. He was not drawing the lab anymore, nor writing orders for leather and glass. He was thinking of the thread that always pulled tight when he let his mind slow down.
Sera was doing some night prayers. She didn't notice what Fizz and John were doing and talking about.
Fizz floated above the table, a small warm glow that drifted side to side like a lantern on a quiet boat.
"Tell me again," Fizz said, softer than his usual stage voice. "Not the part that hurts. The part we can fix about your family."
John did not look up. "We cannot fix the past."
