Sprocket wrenches a rusted bolt from his shoulder plate. Grey dust puffs off in slow clouds. He peers through the gap where it used to be — a thin line of bright sky. A bird trills once. He shoves the shutter open with both palms.
Sprocket marches to the wide square and stops before a woman hanging laundry between two oaks. He holds up a gear on a string: "Will you be my friend?" She pats his head, hums, and walks on. Sprocket watches the gear swing like a slow pendulum.
Down a winding garden path under a wisteria trellis, Sprocket crouches before a child stacking stones. He whispers, "I'm Sprocket. Do you like... gears?" The child shrieks and bolts, kicking up a yellow cloud of pollen. A single purple petal drops onto Sprocket's lap.
Sprocket nearly bumps his knee into a clay garden gnome wedged under a pot of bleeding heart flowers. They stare at each other in the afternoon light. Sprocket flattens his hand into a small table. The gnome taps its ceramic foot on his palm and climbs up.
They walk home along the garden paths, Sprocket cupping the gnome in both hands while it points at bluebirds. On the workbench, beside the loose gear, the gnome tips its red hat: "Same time tomorrow?" Sprocket winds his antenna until it dings.
Sprocket leaves the workshop shutter open, just a crack, wide enough for a bird's trill. He looks out at the quiet square. The gear hangs still. The day is done.