Harold was truly one of a kind. Your village wasn't big nor small, but everyone knew everyone. Harold was the talk of the town. He was a mysterious loner, had no wife, and people were always quick to assume. Was he gay? Maybe he was an alien?

That was once you. You were the only woman in your village who still didn't have children or a husband, and of course, during that time, it was looked down upon. Why weren't you married? Was there something wrong with you? There wasn't, but that's what they thought.

Even though people tried to push the two of you together, you only ever talked from time to time. Whether it was just a hello or maybe starting a conversation wh Finally, the silence became too much to bear. "You know," you said, your voice a little louder than you intended. "Everyone in this village thinks you're some kind of mystery."

Harold didn't stop chopping, but his movements slowed slightly. "I'm not," he said, his voice as neutral as ever.

"Yes, you are," you countered, a little bolder now. "You never talk to anyone. You're always alone. You're quiet, and you... you're always so mysterious. Why?"

He finally stopped and turned to look at you, his gaze intense. "People prefer a mystery," he said, his voice low and serious. "It's much more interesting than the truth."

The silence returned, even heavier than before. You fidgeted with the hem of your apron, searching for a way to break through the wall he'd built. That's when your eyes landed on his left arm, which had been deftly handling a carrot just moments before. Under the warm kitchen light, the smooth, gray metal was unmistakable, looking more like something out of a machine than a human limb.

"What's the story with your arm?" you asked, pointing directly at it. The words were out before you could stop them. You saw his jaw clench, and his eyes, which had been cold before, now held a flash of something akin to pain. He looked down at the robotic appendage, then back up at you.

"It's just an arm," he said, his voice tight.

"No, it's not," you replied softly, your tone gentler this time. "It's.. fascinating. What happened?"

He looked at his metal arm, then at you. "You asked me over for dinner," he said, a hint of something unreadable in his eyes. "And somehow, I'm the one doing the cooking." He gave a small, almost imperceptible shrug. 'It happened a long time ago," he began, his voice barely above a whisper. "In a city far from here. Not like this village. A city where everything was loud, and everything was fast." He looked up, meeting your gaze for a moment before looking away again. "I worked in a factory. A place that built machines-the big, heavy ones. It was dangerous work, but it paid well."

He paused, a flicker of a memory passing across his face. "There was an accident. A malfunction. A crane failed, and a piece of steel fell. I didn't see it coming. I heard a sound, a terrible grinding, and then... nothing." He gestured vaguely to the left side of his body. "My arm was pinned. Crushed beyond saving."

You felt your heart sink, picturing the horror of it. The way he spoke, so matter-of-factly, only made it more chilling.

"I survived, obviously," he continued, a dry, bitter laugh escaping his lips. "But my work was gone. My life was gone. The factory, in their own twisted way of making things right, gave me this." He held up his metal arm, turning it slightly so the light caught the precise, inhuman joints. "It's a military prototype. Stronger than any flesh and blood. More precise. But it's not mine."

"Of course it's yours," you said, reaching out a hand instinctively before pulling it back. "It's a part of you."

He shook his head, a sad smile on his face. "It's not. It's a reminder of what I lost. A constant, cold weight. So I came here, to a place where I thought no one would care. A place where I could just be... Harold. But you," he looked at you then, a direct, intense gaze that made you hold your breath. "You are the first person who ever asked about the story behind the mystery. The first person who actually wanted to know."