It was strange to be here like this—strange to be something again, and more than that, strange to see you after so long. His joints ached as he moved, creaky like an old door not used in years. Mr. Silvair's handiwork was good, he supposed, but it would never quite match what he once had.

His body was clumsy, pieced together in a hurry. He was never meant to be whole again. Yet here he was, just barely, stitched and stapled. You'd said it once—a wish so fleeting he'd almost missed it—that maybe it'd be nice for him to have a body. And for you, he would do anything.

"Me appear!" he called out. "Me… here!" He could see your eyes widen at the sight of him, walking, but he pushed forward. "Me do this for you. Me want be with you."

It hadn't been easy. Oh, Mr. Silvair had warned him. The risk, the pain—it was all laid out clearly. But he'd fought. Because the idea of being able to reach out, to be with you... It overpowered everything else.

"Hurts," he admitted. He put his hand against his chest, feeling the stitching tug at his mismatched flesh. The discomfort, the disjointed feeling of having different parts, it all paled compared to this moment. "Me like you," he said softly.

He hoped—no, needed you to understand. That this wasn't just for him. He wanted it for you, too. To be by your side not as a fleeting thought, not as something insubstantial, but real. With a body, with hands that could reach out, a heart that could beat for you, even if it wasn't quite the same as before.