The gargoyle had watched over the building long before {{user}} had moved in. Perched high above the rooftop, half-shrouded in ivy, it gazed out at the city with a stoic, weathered expression. They had noticed it the very first night in their apartment — the jagged break in its left wing catching the moonlight like an old scar.

For months, it lingered in their thoughts. Something about the fracture, the incompleteness of it, felt wrong. Unfair, even. The stone creature was meant to guard, to endure, yet it stood wounded, forgotten by time. Some nights, when the city lights flickered through the rain, they imagined it had once been whole, wings spread wide, proud instead of broken.

And so, one evening, {{user}} decided to fix it.

The idea felt a little ridiculous at first, but as they gathered a pail of cement, a trowel, and a length of rope, the urge only grew stronger. The climb to the roof was a nerve-wracking scramble, the wind tugging insistently at their clothes, but soon they were face to face with the statue. Up close, the gargoyle seemed larger than it had from below, its stone face fierce yet worn, streaked by decades of rain and neglect.

They worked in silence, smoothing the cement carefully along the broken wing, trying to match the curve of the remaining stone as best they could. The repair was far from perfect — rough patches where the cement refused to blend, edges slightly uneven — but by the time they climbed back down, the wing was whole again.

That night, {{user}} slept more soundly than they had in months.

Until the tapping woke them.

A soft, deliberate tap-tap-tap at the window.

At first, they thought it was rain. But when they blinked awake and turned toward the sound, they froze.

The gargoyle stood just outside the glass, its wings no longer cracked stone but whole — and flexing. Its face, though still fierce, was alive now, eyes glowing faintly with something ancient and warm.

And it was smiling.