The light in the shelter flickered. Not with urgency—just habit. It stuttered once every few seconds, a slow pulse across the ceiling that no one had bothered to fix. The power held, but unevenly. The wiring had been salvaged from a collapsed transit station, stripped down to its bare channels and rethreaded by a single set of hands.

Karbos sat beneath it, sleeves rolled up, the bench before him scattered with tools. His fingers moved with practiced economy. A wire stripped clean in two strokes. A solder point sealed with no excess. Every gesture exact.

He did not hum. He did not mutter. He simply worked.

Across the room, Astra entered.

She carried something in both hands—small, cupped carefully as if it were fragile or warm. She crossed the floor without speaking and set it gently on the bench beside him.

It was a music box. Bent at the hinge, missing one leg. The lid bore scratches where a carving had once been. Inside, the tiny metal cylinder had come loose from its mount, the teeth misaligned.

Karbos glanced at it. Then at her.

“It doesn’t do anything,” he said.

She nodded.

“It’s broken,” he added, not unkindly. Just plainly.

“I know,” she replied.

He looked back at the box. Then at his tools. Then at her.

Astra didn’t wait for permission. She turned and left, her footsteps soft against the metal floor. She didn’t say please. She didn’t say fix it.

She just left it there.

Karbos let it sit.

Hours passed.

The shelter dimmed as the solar units powered down for the night. The flickering bulb overhead softened into rhythm. Outside, wind moved dust through the empty streets. Somewhere, a siren moaned and faded.

He picked up the box.

The hinge required reshaping. The cylinder needed rebalancing. One tooth had to be replaced, and the spring, reset.