I was mid-meditation—mentally reciting the entire socket size chart to stave off existential dread—when the garage door thundered open and a large centaur clopped in, dragging a golem-powered utility truck behind him.

  “Fix it,” he growled.

  Grenda didn’t flinch. She glanced up from her invoice scroll, quill still in hand. “You again?”

  “Truck’s making noises,” he said, flaring his nostrils. “Screaming. Wailing. Possibly cursing.”

  “Did you feed it arcane stabilizer like I told you?”

  “I gave it bone broth. It seemed… healthier.”

  The golem truck behind him trembled. Its headlights blinked in Morse code. One side mirror turned to the wall and began weeping grease.

  I sighed internally and prepared for another round of unpaid, unacknowledged, and very likely life-threatening garage antics.

  Sparks poked her head out of the break room. “Did someone say screaming vehicle? That’s my specialty!”

  Grenda glared at her. “You’re on fire probation.”

  “I won’t ignite it. Just… soothe it aggressively.”

  The centaur, whose name was apparently Darrin, explained that the golem-truck—nicknamed Thunk—had been a faithful companion during his years as a roaming enchanted lumberjack. Then, one day, it started refusing commands, reversing without input, and once tried to run over his ex-wife’s hedge maze.

  “The therapist says it has boundary issues,” Darrin muttered. “But I think it just needs a new transmission.”

  Thunk groaned ominously.

  Grenda frowned and opened the hood. “Oh yeah. This transmission’s toast. Melted sigils, runes bleeding memory into the clutch, emotional scarring in the third gear…”

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Thunk made a low keening sound, like a kettle dying of heartbreak.

  Sparks patted the hood. “There, there. We’re professionals.”

  The hood burst into tears. Literal coolant-tears. Sparks hugged it tighter.

  Meanwhile, I was trying to get a feel for the magic around the truck. Golem cores, like most enchanted machines, give off energy—especially when they’re sad.

  I could feel it in the drawer hinges. Something deep and fractured in its arcane matrix. Something hurt.

  So, naturally, Sparks decided to throw a party.

  “Therapy through positive reinforcement!” she declared. “We’ll do a wellness check, some emotional unbinding, and then I’ll install a friendship rune I just made from a macaroni necklace!”

  Grenda was too tired to argue. “Fine. But keep the macaroni away from the fuel lines.”

  Darrin sulked in the corner, chewing hay and muttering about torque ratios and society’s double standards for centaur mechanics.

  I was, at this point, shoved unceremoniously under Thunk’s rear differential. Which, frankly, was offensive. Just because I’m a toolbox doesn’t mean I enjoy being shoved near someone else’s leaking mana valve.

  Still, I made the most of it. Using what limited control I had, I guided a rune wrench up toward a cracked glyph and gave it a gentle nudge. A soft chime rang out.

  Thunk shuddered.

  Sparks froze. “Did anyone else feel that? I think Boxy just calibrated a healing sigil.”

  Grenda looked up. “You’re saying the toolbox fixed something?”

  Thunk’s headlights flickered. A small magical projection burst from the exhaust port, showing a wobbly image of Darrin singing karaoke at a company party. Badly.

  Thunk began to purr.

  Grenda blinked. “I… okay, sure. Toolbox therapy.”

  Darrin stared. “He hasn’t shown me a karaoke recording in years. That night meant something to him.”

  Thunk backed gently into Darrin and popped open a glove compartment filled with wood shavings and an old friendship bracelet.

  I don’t cry. I don’t even have ducts. But I felt something.

  Later that afternoon, the centaur loaded Thunk onto a tow-rune and gave the shop a respectful nod.

  “You’ve done more for him than the last three enchanters combined,” he said. “And his mom.”

  Grenda chuckled. “Just another day at Geargrind’s.”

  Thunk honked once, softly, and gave me a salute with its windshield wipers.

  “Boxy,” Sparks whispered. “You’re a miracle worker.”

  I wanted to tell her I wasn’t. I was just a sentient toolbox with a growing sensitivity to arcane trauma and a burning need to prove myself. Instead, I ejected a tiny gear from my drawer and let it roll gently to her boot.

  She picked it up like it was sacred. “I’m going to turn this into a keychain.”

  Grenda squinted at me again. “You sure you’re not possessed?”

  I jingled innocently.

  She narrowed her eyes, then sighed and turned away.

  One day. One day they’ll all know.

  But for now?

  I fixed a golem truck’s broken heart.

  And that’s a start.