Rent

A mother’s voice, a son’s devotion, and a lie on the evening news.

---

---

Rent

They keep looping the footage.

The same angle, same gut-turning shot of the Bellows Gearworks collapsing into itself.

“WHRN Breaking News: A catastrophic explosion has leveled Bellows Gearworks in the Lower Clockwork District. Witnesses report a male gnome, identified as Derrin Cogswill, running in and out of the blaze to save trapped workers before the main boiler ruptured. Officials say more than 200 gnomes are confirmed dead…”

The reporter’s voice is crisp.
Calm.
Like she’s talking about the weather.

On the holovid, the factory looks like the gates of Infernum cracked open...a mouth belching fire. The roof groans inward, timbers snapping like the bones of giants. The heat is visible, twisting the air, warping every surface around it. Gnomes run like ants from a kicked nest...some dragging the broken, others limping and blackened by smoke.

And me?
I’m in my chair.
A half-empty mug of dandelion coffee cooling at my elbow.
My fingers are still raw from where the det-switch burned my palm.

She’s sitting across from me.

Shawl wrapped tight, lips drawn into a hard line. The way she used to look when I came home late smelling like ale. Her eyes bore into me…soft and sharp at the same time.

“Tell me you didn’t.” Her voice is steady, but her fingers are trembling against the table. “Please… tell me you didn’t.”

I laugh.
Can’t help it.
Not a big laugh. Just a little one that curls at the corner of my mouth.

“Of course I did.”

The footage cuts to the blast. White light. A sound that shakes even the holovid speakers. Then nothing but flame.

“You—” She grips the shawl tighter. “You planted a bomb in a factory, you fool. There were workers in there. Families.”

“They shouldn’t have supported the false Gnolaum,” I say softly. It’s an explanation she should already understand. “They picked their side, Mom.”

Her head jerks up. “They were gnomes, you idiot. People. Living, breathing people.”

“They were apostates.” I lean forward. “The church called me, Mom. Said the false prophet’s reach was spreading through every factory Bellows owned. Said someone noble had to send a message. I answered the call. A holy calling, Mom. I did it for us.”

Her lip curls. “For us? You murdered two hundred souls for us?”

“For you,” I snap. The words slice through the air like a thrown blade. “For you, Mom. You need your meds. You said it yourself. They cost too much, and Bellows cut my hours. And when he let me go? Just like that—” I snap my fingers. “All our options vanished, Mom! I didn’t know how we’d pay rent. How we’d keep you breathing!”

Her voice cracks. “That’s…not how we solve things.”

“It’s how they solved me,” I hiss. “Philbert Bellows fired me, remember? ‘I’m sorry’, he said, ‘we’re downsizing.’ All the while those bastards kept printing parts for a false god!”

The footage shows the roof giving way.
A tower of fire.
A chorus of screams swallowed in the roar.
My heart doesn’t race.
It sings.

She whispers, “You killed them.”

“They’re saying he died saving them,” I say. “Hero gnome. Derrin Cogswill. See?” I point at the screen where his name scrolls beneath a soot-smeared photo. “They’ll build a plaque. Bellows will choke on his pipe knowing some other poor cog is their saint. They’ll forget about the Gnolaum now…as they should.”

“Listen to yourself.” Her voice hardens. “You’re talking like a madman.”

“I’m talking like a provider.”
My hands shake.
“I did what no one else would.”
I grip the mug, just to have something to hold.
”I fixed things.”

Her mouth opens, then closes again.
Her shoulders sag under the weight of what I’ve done.
What I am.
The holovid light paints her face in orange flame.
She looks older than I remember.
Fragile.
…like she might break.

She whispers, “Wait… they paid you to do this?”

“Yes.” My throat tightens. “Twenty-two thousand credits.”

Her eyes flicker.

I see something break inside her...or maybe mend.
It’s hard to tell with her.

“Twenty-two….” She exhales slow.

“Thousand,” I repeat.

She nods. “That’ll cover the meds.”

“And rent,” I smile.

Her gaze drifts toward the holovid. The fire is reflected in her pupils. A sunset that’ll never end.

For a long time, neither of us speaks.

The reporter keeps talking about casualties.
About how brave he was.
About how they’ll never forget him.

Then she says it.

“I’m proud of you.”

Everything in me goes still.

That buzzing under my skull...the one that’s been clawing and screaming most of my adult life…goes quiet. Like a door shutting.

Warmth seeps in around the edges of the kitchen.

I nod, blinking against the wet in my eyes. “I just wanted you to be happy, Mom.”

She smiles that half-smile she used to wear when I came home from my first shifts at the factory. “I know.”

My chest aches. “I wanted to fix things. I wanted to take care of you.”

“I know, sweetheart.”

“I love you, Mom.”

She reaches for my hand across the table.
…but her fingers never touch mine.

The holovid crackles. The news loops back to the moment of impact.
Another explosion.
Another scream.
Two hundred dead.
Derrin Cogswill—hero, gone.

The chair across from me is empty.

A folded shawl lies over the backrest, edges frayed.
Dust blooms in the air, swirling through the holovid’s light like ash from a distant fire.
There’s a faint imprint in the seat cushion.
A memory more than a presence.

I whisper to the nothing.
“We did it, Mom.”

The flames answer for her.

---

Author’s Note:

The Bellows Gearworks bombing became one of the most whispered tragedies in Clockwork City’s lower districts. Official records remember the name Derrin Cogswill, the “hero” who died pulling others from the inferno. But those who live beneath the smokestacks know the fire didn’t start with a boiler fault.

The fallout of that night didn’t just scorch the city — it bled into its music. Ezra, lead singer of the GEAR GIRLS, was in love with Derrin. Her grief carved its way into song, transforming one act of heroism and betrayal into anthems that refuse to let the world forget.

If you listen closely to the new tracks, you’ll hear it: the smoke in her breath, the ache in every chord. Songs like Echoes in the Smoke and If I Could Tell You don’t just mourn a man…they echo the fire that changed a city.

Some still believe faith lit the fuse. Others blame hunger and desperation.
But music… music remembers what history tries to hide.

---

---

---

---