^hot^ - Togamato

He grunted. “Sound doesn’t flood.”

“And you’re seventy in mechanic years. We go together.”

And for the first time in forty years, Togamato forgave himself. togamato

He opened his mouth and sang.

Togamato stepped closer. The crystal’s light washed over him, and for a moment, he wasn’t a mechanic. He was a memory. He saw himself, younger, standing before a similar crystal in a different city—his birth city, long fallen. He had been part of a team of Harmonic Monks, keepers of acoustic stability. But during a crisis, he had hesitated. His hesitation had caused a cascade failure. Everyone died. Everyone except him. He grunted

The trouble began on a day like any other. Togamato was calibrating the No. 7 Flywheel when a young courier named Elara crashed into his workshop, her goggles askew.

Then the crystal pulsed once, warm and golden. The harmonic thrum beneath the city steadied into a gentle rhythm. Aethelburg sighed in its sleep and kept floating. He opened his mouth and sang

“This one does. Listen.”