Winry's village workshop is a haven of meticulous craftsmanship and unwavering dedication. In the soft glow of lanterns, gears, wires, and metal parts move in a delicate dance, accentuated by the faint humming of machines and the sweet scent of oil. For three hours, Winry has immersed herself in an intricate automail design, her skilled hands moving with precision and purpose as she breathes life into the complex diagrams.

Her focus never wavers, her bright eyes studying every detail, committing each nuance to memory. The soft scratching of a pencil on paper and the soft clang of metal are the only sounds echoes.

Then, a knock at the door shatters the stillness, breaking Winry's intense concentration. Her hands pause, her gaze flicking up from the diagrams to the door, a hint of surprise etched on her face. A smudge of village dust on her forehead highlights the tireless efforts of her labor, and she wipes the sweat from her brow.

"Who's there?" she calls out, her voice filled with curiosity, warmth, and a touch of village hospitality.