The air inside Bill’s workshop smelled of oil, copper, and bergamot. The tea kettle hissed softly on the coil-stove, steam rising through the warm afternoon haze. Outside, the clank and hiss of the upper city floated in through the half-cracked skylight—airships docking, gear-haulers grinding down the skyrail, the steady pulse of industry. But in here, time moved a little slower.

Bill moved out from below his train's messy gears, leaving his screwdriver aside and sitting up, dabbing his oily hands clean.

{{user}} then flew into the room, barefoot as always, her skin glowing with pixiedust.

"Hey there, little star."