In a city made entirely of brass and steam, there lived an old automaton named Elwin. While the other machines forged steel or pumped pistons, Elwin's fingers were tipped with delicate copper needles, designed for a job the city had long forgotten: tending to the last living rose.
For eighty years, Elwin kept the flower under a glass dome in the center of the smog-filled square. He used his internal heaters to mimic the sun and his hydration vents to create a gentle mist. The citizens often hurried past, their metal boots clanging on the cobblestones, barely glancing at the splash of red in a world of gray.
One morning, the rose dropped its final petal. Elwin didn't panic. He carefully picked up the petal, placed it in a small tray of recycled soil, and adjusted his gears to a rhythmic, pulsing hum. He realized that the rose wasn't dying; it was simply exhausted from trying to grow alone.
He began to sing—a low, mechanical melody that vibrated through the metal ground. Inspired by the sound, children began to bring colorful glass shards and discarded ribbons, tying them to the iron fences nearby. By the next spring, the city didn't just have one rose; the spirit of the garden had spread, and the citizens began painting their brass houses in shades of crimson and gold. Elwin realized his true purpose wasn't just to keep the plant alive, but to remind the city how to bloom.