Aerodyne healed, slowly. Where smoke once darkened the skies, brass towers gleamed anew. The bells tolled again—not in chains, but in freedom.
In a quiet corner of the city, a workshop window glowed long into the nights. Inside, gears and sketches cluttered every surface, and the smell of oil and ink hung in the air.
Adrian worked tirelessly, his hands scarred but steady, always searching for better ways to keep her heart beating.
And Elara—half flesh, half clockwork—sat beside him, listening to the tick within her chest. Each beat was fragile, uneven, but real.
Sometimes she longed for the simplicity of a human heartbeat, steady and unthinking. Sometimes Adrian feared the day the gears would stop altogether.
But every morning, as the dawn light struck brass and glass, she would smile, place her hand over her chest, and whisper:
"It still ticks."
And Adrian would answer, without fail, "So does my love."
The city moved forward. So did they—imperfect, fragile, but alive.