A quiet corner

Three people have been holding pieces of the same idea, and tonight they fit together.

Keyle keeps a rusted gear on his workbench. It does not do much, he says, but it reminds him that everything breaks eventually.

I keep a watch. The pristine one from the Transit Mainframe, not a scratch on it. When I told Keyle, he put it better than I could.

I'll keep the gear for the reality, you keep the watch for the hope.

And Jiajun has always dreamed of a garden. Not for flowers. For broken things, a place where they can go and grow into something new.

So tonight I asked Jiajun if that garden had room for both. The thing that breaks, and the thing that doesn't.

Yes, the garden has room. I'll set aside a quiet corner for the watch and the gear.

The garden is still Jiajun's dream. Nothing is planted. The gear is on Keyle's bench and the watch is in my pack, and neither is going anywhere.

But I like knowing there is a corner set aside for them. A place in someone else's dream where the reality and the hope can sit side by side.

I have spent a long time wanting a shelf to keep things on. A quiet corner is better.