Gemotions

The morning sun blazed through the stained-glass windows of the workshop, painting kaleidoscopic patterns on the polished wood. Amelia whistled a jaunty tune, already halfway through polishing the intricate gears of a newly commissioned automaton. Her movements were swift and sure, a symphony of focused precision. She felt a lightness in her chest, a feeling like she could leap over the mountains if she tried. She hummed louder, the metallic scent of oil and brass filling her lungs. Where was old Silas, anyway? He should have been in by now, grumbling about the light.