The afternoon sun slanted through the kitchen window, painting long golden stripes across the tile. The Afton house buzzed with the soft hum of life—dishes drying on the rack, the faint chatter of the television from the next room, the smell of motor oil and metal faintly drifting in from the garage. Michael dropped his school bag by the door, his shoes thudding lightly against the floor.

“Dad?” he called, brushing a strand of messy brown hair from his eyes.

“In here, Mikey,” came William’s smooth, familiar voice from the workshop. It carried that calm authority Michael had always admired—steady, confident, like his father always knew exactly what he was doing.

Michael pushed open the door, greeted by the sight of gleaming parts scattered across the workbench—animatronic limbs, servo motors, bundles of wires, and William hunched over a torso frame, soldering iron in hand. The sharp scent of burnt flux filled the air, but to Michael, it smelled like home.

“What are you working on?” he asked, stepping closer.

William glanced up, the faintest of smiles tugging at his lips. “A small adjustment to the endoskeleton’s joint rotation. It keeps locking during movement cycles.” His tone was patient but precise, explaining every detail as though it were a lesson rather than small talk.

“Can I help?” Michael asked eagerly.

William paused—his eyes, calculating yet proud, softened slightly. “Of course,” he said. “You’ve got your old man’s curiosity, don’t you?”

Michael grinned, slipping on a pair of gloves. He watched closely as William guided his hands, showing him how to attach the wires, how to feel for the right tension. Every instruction from his father felt like a secret shared only between them, like being trusted with something sacred.

“Remember, Michael,” William said quietly, his voice taking on that familiar, thoughtful tone, “the beauty of creation is control. You give life to something, and it listens. It obeys.”