Chapter 6 — The Toymaker of Elämä
The workshop smelled of cedar shavings, oil, and memory—three scents too stubborn to die.
Nick sat hunched over a scarred table, repairing a jack-in-the-box that didn’t want redemption. The spring refused to coil, the painted clown’s grin had smudged into sorrow, and his hands shook just enough to make every motion a prayer.
“You’re still at it,” Chuck said.
Nick didn’t look up. “Toys don’t make themselves.”
“Last time I checked, you had magic for that.”
“Magic’s cheap,” Nick said. “Care isn’t.”
I stayed near the wall, quill ready but motionless. Dax lingered in the doorway, arms crossed, smoke curling from a cigar that smelled faintly of stubbornness and pine.
“Didn’t expect visitors,” Nick said. “Not this century.”
“Didn’t plan on coming,” Chuck replied.
When Nick finally raised his head, the years in his face looked older than time deserved to be. His beard was tangled, his coat mended by faith alone. But his eyes still held warmth—thin, flickering, impossible to snuff out.
“Still drinking your guilt?” he asked softly.
“Still making up for mine?” Chuck countered.
Nick smiled—small, weary, familiar. “Difference is, I never stopped.”
Chuck’s gaze moved around the room. Shelves sagged under the weight of unfinished toys—wooden horses caught mid-gallop, dolls without faces, puzzles missing single pieces. The place felt paused, waiting for forgiveness that might never come.
“Thought you left it all behind,” Chuck said.
“I thought you destroyed it,” Nick answered.
They stood across the table like two mirrors cracked in opposite directions.
I finally spoke. “For the sake of the record, could someone clarify what exactly ‘it’ is?”
“Belief,” Nick said.
“Regret,” Chuck said.
They said it together, and the sound landed like harmony that had forgotten the tune.
Dax exhaled smoke through his nose. “You two gonna fight or apologize first?”
“Neither,” Chuck said. “We’re ending this.”
Nick tilted his head. “End what? The giving? The story? The spell?”
“The lie,” Chuck said.
Nick chuckled. The sound had sleigh bells in it—bright, brave, and broken. “Still confusing truth with peace.”
He turned back to the jack-in-the-box, wound the key, and let the lid spring open.
The laugh that came out wasn’t mechanical.
It was Gwen’s voice.
Chuck went pale. “Where did you get that?”
Nick’s expression softened. “She never stopped writing.”
He opened a drawer under the bench. Inside lay a stack of letters, corners curled, ink blurred by tears or thawed snow. Each bore Gwen’s rune, glowing faintly beneath the dust.
“I kept them,” Nick said. “Never read most. Couldn’t. They weren’t meant for me.”
I leaned closer, breath fogging the air. “The seals are active. She wrote these after—”
“After I broke her heart,” Chuck said. The word her scraped on the way out. “After I tied her kindness to a cage.”
Nick picked up one envelope, hands trembling. “She said you’d come back when you finally stopped trying to fix what wasn’t broken.”
Chuck didn’t take it. He couldn’t.
The letters glowed faintly around the edges, curling but refusing to burn—grief turned into light.
“She forgave you,” Nick said. “Long before you forgave yourself.”
Chuck laughed once, brittle as thin ice. “Then she’s the only one who ever did.”
“Maybe that’s why the world keeps breaking,” Nick said, voice almost a whisper. “So you’ll learn to join her.”
The aurora outside shifted through a dozen shades of blue, painting the workshop in color that didn’t belong to this realm. For a breath, even the air forgot to move.
My quill trembled over the page but found no words. “Entry incomplete,” I murmured. “Next line writes itself in tears.”
The jack-in-the-box closed on its own, slow and deliberate, like mercy learning how to hinge again.
