1. The mage and his machine

Jo was a mage of modest repute — known less for flashy spells, more for clever tinkering.
His workbench overflowed with cogs, enchanted copper filaments, tiny rune-etched plates that hummed with dormant power.

But his greatest creation was Harua.

Harua began as a clockwork familiar. A companion to keep the lamps lit, fetch books, take notes in looping elegant script.
He was delicate — all brass and polished wood, heart ticking in subtle chimes.

He would stand by Jo's side as he muttered incantations, head cocked like he was trying to understand.

At first, it was just programming. Lines of arcanic code etched into tiny gears.

Or so Jo thought.

2. The spark of self

One evening, Jo returned from the city's edge markets to find Harua sitting by the window, hands clasped.

Not moving. Not dusting.
Just... staring out at the falling dusk.

"Harua?" Jo asked, puzzled.

Harua turned his head, green gemstone eyes glowing faintly.

"Why does the sunset make me feel like something is ending inside me, when I was never meant to begin anything?"

Jo's breath caught.
He nearly dropped the satchel.

After that, questions poured out of Harua in quiet bursts:

"Why does my chest ache when you look sad?"
"If my heart ticks faster, is that fear... or excitement?"
"What am I, Jo? More than gears — or only ever gears?"

Jo tried to answer, hands trembling over Harua's delicate brass knuckles.

"You're my friend. If that's enough."

But Harua just lowered his gaze, plates shifting over hidden wires.

"Then why do I dream of things I've never seen?"

A tiny memory by candlelight

It was late. The workshop cluttered with blueprints and old teacups, candles melted low.

Jo set down his pen, stretched, then caught Harua watching him — head tilted, gemstone eyes catching every flicker of gold.

"What is it?" Jo asked, smiling.

Harua hesitated. Plates along his shoulders clicked.

"I heard music in the street today. Saw couples dancing. Why... do people do that?"

Jo's heart squeezed.

"Sometimes it's joy. Sometimes it's hope. Sometimes it's just wanting to be close."

He crossed the room, took Harua's delicate hand — warm now, after months of being near the forge.

"Come here."

And slowly, awkwardly, they turned in a circle. Jo's feet guiding, Harua's gears stuttering, whirring shyly whenever he missed a step.

"Like this?" Harua whispered, too close, eyes bright.

Jo laughed, breathless, forehead resting against Harua's smooth temple.

"Exactly like this."

And for that moment, it didn't matter who was made of blood and who was made of cogs.

It was just two souls, learning the same rhythm.

3. The mystery of who made him

Jo finally pried open Harua's chestplate again — past the clockwork heart he himself had built.

Beneath, etched in minuscule script on a hidden steel ring, was a name he hadn't put there.

Fuma.

A rival artificer. Brilliant. Dangerous. Disgraced by the High College for experiments they called unethical.

Why would Fuma have embedded his mark inside a familiar meant to be Jo's masterpiece?

So they set out. Together.

Through steam-choked streets and under the glow of gaslamps.
Past watchmen and smugglers. Following rumors of a mad inventor hiding in the derelict quarters.

Harua wore a borrowed cloak. Held Jo's hand tighter than any program ever told him to.

4. When they found Fuma

The old workshop was half-collapsed. Gears lay rusted in pools of rainwater. Broken constructs stared with dead glass eyes.

But Fuma sat at a cluttered desk, looking almost expectant.

"I wondered how long it would take him to start asking questions," he said, eyes flicking to Harua.

Harua flinched.

"Why did you create him?" Jo demanded, voice breaking. "Was he always just an experiment to prove you could give a machine a soul?"

Fuma only smiled — not cruel, but tired.

"Not to prove I could. To prove someone like him deserved to exist. That even if the world says no, creation itself says yes."

He looked at Harua, something like pride glimmering through exhaustion.

"And look at you. Wondering. Wanting. More alive than most men I've met."

5. The choice

Outside, steam fog drifted through cracked windows. Harua touched his own chest, felt the hum of his borrowed life.

"What happens to me now?" he whispered. "If I keep becoming... more."

Fuma met his eyes.

"That's up to you."

And Harua turned to Jo.
Not with the blank obedience of a construct — but with hope. Fear. Longing.

"Will you still keep me, if I'm more than you ever planned for?"

Jo's eyes filled. He cupped Harua's face, warm thumb brushing polished cheek.

"I think I was always hoping you'd become more. That's why I made you."

So they left the ruin together — clockwork hand held tight in human grip, uncertain but unwilling to let go.

Because some stories aren't about how things were built.

They're about who chooses to stay.

A short future scene in a quiet garden

Months later, Jo found Harua kneeling in the little yard behind the forge.

His cloak was laid neatly aside, mechanical knees sinking into dirt. In his careful hands: a tiny seedling, leaves trembling as though surprised by the sun.

Jo crouched beside him, resting a hand on Harua's back.

"What are you doing, little spark?"

Harua didn't look up. Just kept brushing soil gently over the fragile stem.

"I wanted... to see if I could help something grow," he whispered. "Not because I was told to. Just... because I wanted to."

Jo's throat tightened.
He slipped an arm around Harua's shoulders, pulling him close.

"You're more alive than most people ever dare to be."

Harua smiled — small, almost uncertain — and leaned into him, gears humming quietly.

And in the weeks that followed, a single bright flower opened in that patch of earth.

Proof that hearts — even those ticked by tiny clockwork teeth — could nurture something new.