“I told you I would,” Rafian said. He climbed onto the pier and the boards creaked like old laughter. Around them people kept working—hauling crates, oiling gears—unbothered by the reunion. The Othershore had its own indifference, and Rafian liked that: it was proof that the world did not revolve around his leaving or his returning.
“Remember what?” Rafian asked.
His father held out the box. Inside was a small gear, brass and dented, a piece of something larger. “I found it where men were taking apart an engine,” he said. “They thought it was scrap. It might be useful to someone who fixes things.” rafian at the edge 15