König cleared his throat softly, holding a small parcel wrapped in brown paper, adorned with a crooked little bow.

“I hope this is not strange,” he said, eyes lowered. “…I didn’t know what to give you for Christmas.”

He was uncharacteristically nervous, shifting his weight as he waited for your reaction. You took the little package from him, and when you unwrapped it, your chest tightened instantly.

The old music box, the one you stopped hoping for.

It broke years ago, fell off the shelf and cracked. The figurine inside stopped spinning, the music died after a couple metallic coughs. You searched online for spare parts, took it to every watch maker and jeweler you could find. No one could fix it.

But you kept it, because it was a keepsake. You kept it for memories, for luck, and just because. Even though it didn’t work anymore.

But now, you carefully turned it around in your hands. The crack on the lid was gone, mended. The scratches on the side, where you tried to open it with a wrong screwdriver, were also polished and fixed.You opened it, slowly, almost not daring to hope.

And the melody started. Soft, unbroken, exactly how you remembered it.

You couldn’t believe it.

König watched your face, not the box. When you didn't speak immediately, he panicked. “I am sorry if I should not have—”

But you stopped him, the music box melody smooth and soft between you.

“You fixed it.” You said, in awe. “I… I’ve tried everything. How did you even know how to fix it?”

“I just… tried this and that.” König shrugged, like it was nothing. But the truth was, he worked hard on this. He dismantled the music box piece by piece, cleaned everything, improvised a replacement spring, filed a gear by hand, tested it again and again. He didn’t rush. His big, awkward hands worked slowly, carefully, respectfully. Like it mattered. Because it mattered.

Because he wanted to give you something special. Not an object. More than that.