He pushed aside the curtains, and it seemed for a moment that there was only the swirl of dust and light and all the world was gone. But the dust settled across the surfaces of the room, like a snowfall of memories that did nothing but preserve, and hide, the past.
He looked around the room. It had been his room, where he worked. With a workbench in the center and bookshelves around the walls, it was clear that this space had one purpose.
“Will you make again?” his companion asked in a small, dry voice.
His eyes lifted from the scattered pages of diagrams and notations long since abandoned.
“I don’t know,” came his slow reply. “I left this once, and it was not the wrong decision. Why should I come back?”
“But you already are back, here, in your workshop of wonders.” The voice was tightening with expectation.
He lifted a pair of rusted shears.
“I’ll at least need to clean these.” Turning, he continued. “It will not be like before. I have a master now, and he dictates what I make.”
The companion simply stared.