The Maker lived a life of creation. The Maker made himself, building each individual part of himself day after day. Every day, The Maker would wake himself by winding himself, the gears in his body activating for the day. The Maker left his house and entered his workshop underneath. Before opening, he would take the zeppelin into the city center, and buy his parts. The Maker was well liked. No matter where he went, the citizens would wave to him. They would discuss with each other quietly, “I wonder what The Maker will create today?”
              The Maker would open up the storage compartment in his stomach and pull out an unfolding bag. He walked up to the parts dispensary, inserting a nickel. He held his bag underneath a pipe, and it spewed out nuts and bolts, and other bits and bobs and trinkets The Maker needed. He would take the zeppelin back to the workshop. The clock above the shop rang nine times, and out came a mini version of The Maker from the clock, waving and gesturing to people to come in.
              Kids and adults alike would come into the workshop and be amazed. The workshop was full of shelves, and the shelves were full of fun trinkets. On the ceiling were hot air balloons, across the tops of the shelves were trains, on the floor little mechanical mice were chased by an angry mechanical cat. The Maker sat at his desk, and the little children would flock around him as he made something. The Maker never spoke, he had no voice to speak with. He spoke with his creations. He held out his latest making, a little ballerina who spun around on his hand. The Maker snapped his metallic fingers, making a creaky sound, but upon his cue the ballerina jumped out of his hand and onto the table. She continued dancing as the little children clapped in fascination.
               This was The Maker’s day. But soon, it would be over. The artificial moon would be carried into the sky by the hovering fortresses to signify the end of the day. The once full shop would slowly empty person by person. It would empty and empty until the once clamorous noises of glee had changed to the lonely whirring of The Maker’s creations. The Maker would stand up and wearily walk up the stairs, plugging himself into the winding machine as it spun his gears overnight for the next morning.
               He woke up, started to run his gears and repeated the same process. He would get his parts, open his shop, and continue as usual. More and more kids came to shop on days when the factories closed early. They didn’t even stop at home to wash the soot off their faces as they rushed into the store. The Maker unwinded a gear on his head and the top of his pointy head opened up as a flock of little metal butterflies flew from his empty skull. The kids chased the butterflies around with a cheery innocence that made The Maker’s steel heart melancholy. The Maker, like every child when he was young, was building the city up from the ground to the skies. That is where The Maker learned his love to create. 
               Again the fortress lifted the moon, and The Maker reset his gears again. The shop felt empty. As the weather worsened and another draft for the war went out with demand for cannons increasing, children and adults alike were away. The Maker sat at his desk, staring at the window waiting for people to come. There was only one person in sight, a young woman. She came to The Maker’s desk and said to him, “Oh Maker, how do you find inspiration to make things?”
              The Maker looked at the woman, the lightbulbs in his eyes glowing yellow. The Maker had no words to speak with, and instead he grabbed a wilted rose from one of the vases on his desk. From the tip of his left index finger sprayed a mist, and soon the rose’s petals sprung up. The Maker handed her the rose, awaiting a response. “Thank you, Maker.” She held the rose close to her heart. “I don’t know what the city would do without you.”
               The young woman left the shop, leaving The Maker alone. The Maker’s gears still whirred in the machinery inside him. He was not satisfied. He looked in the back of his shop, searching for something. He pulled out a dusty vinyl disc, and put it on a record player he pulled from one of the shelves. The record was scratchy, but soon the beautiful voice of a woman sang to him. Even to his artificial metal ears, it was soothing. Leaning his metal arms on the desk, The Maker rested his head. The Maker never needed to rest anything, as long as he wound himself up he would have limitless energy. But The Maker didn’t rest his head out of necessity. It was done out of memory, out of longing. It was the action of a time in which being able to rest oneself to the singing of their mother was something to look forward to each night and not a far away reality. From his lightbulb eyes, what seemed to be a tear streamed down the side of The Maker’s steel face.
               The next day, the shop was just as empty. The Maker decided to go for a stroll, leaving the confines of his workshop for a change. The zeppelin traffic was slow today, the skies were full of more flying fortresses carrying the new draftees to the front lines, and fighter planes running routine patrols around the city. The Maker didn’t head to the dispensary like he usually would, rather going to a fabric store. He grabbed rolls upon rolls of different fabrics, and stuffed it in his bag in his stomach. He took the zeppelin home; no one waved to The Maker today.
               The Maker waited for the scarce people in the workshop to leave, he couldn’t focus on them today. He was using a machine, a sewing machine. With the fabrics, he sewed together purples and reds all day until the moon was in the sky. Eventually, The Maker finished the dress. But he had nothing to put it on. And so The Maker continued to create. With all the parts he had available, including those he could spare from himself, he constructed a body to place the dress on. He slid the dress over her metallic head and onto her person. He laced his metal fingers with hers as he put on the disc again. He took her by the waist, and slowly began to dance with her. She was but a metal body, constructed of different parts of himself and his spare creations, but in some way The Maker felt life. His knees were not as strong and flexible as they once were, his metal features not as dashing as they might’ve been before. But to his creation nothing mattered. Alone in the workshop the two danced to the sweet melodies of the woman in the disc. 
                The Maker knew it was missing something. He began to panic, rebuilding her. He took a piece of everything he could within the shop to build her. He patched together the hot balloon fabrics to create a long head of black hair, he took the lights of the artificial stars hanging from the ceiling to use for her eyes. To The Maker, it was the most beautiful thing he could create, but it was missing one thing. With the last spare parts of himself, he constructed a big flashing red light that made a thumping sound every second. He took the light, and opened up a panel in the machine’s chest to place it.
                 The light wasn’t flashing, and The Maker looked on expectantly. Slowly, the light turned. Her neck swiveled around as she observed her surroundings, the deconstructed workshop of The Maker. She then turned around to see him, holding a rose in his hand as he placed the needle down on the spinning record. She took the rose, and then looked down at the light in her chest.
                  She looked back up at The Maker, who held out his mechanical hand. She took his offer as she left the rose on the desk. Together the two danced, through the shelves and rows of The Maker’s creations. As the two moved together, The Maker pointed out his works, sharing his love of creation with his very own. They moved through everything The Maker had built, even the small trinkets he had built so show his father when he was young. As the disc finished spinning, the woman’s voice became silent.
                  The two looked at each other in silence, until The Maker did something. He twisted the gear to his head to pop it open and took out a single key. A panel opened in his chest with the push of a button, and then a lever to open a second panel that revealed a keyhole. He held out the key for her to take, and she opened up the panel. It was like clockwork, an amalgamation of gears and cogs turning on each other making a grinding sound. At the center of it all was a small light, flashing red just like the one in her chest. The Maker pointed to the light, and then placed his hand atop hers. 
                   She noticed immediately, and brought The Maker in for an embrace. She held him close and The Maker finally let himself be the one to rely on another. She felt a weight as she held onto him, a weight that got heavier and heavier. The Maker’s eyes were slowly fading out, she could hear his gears slowing. The Maker hadn’t wound himself up and had been up all night, and slowly he collapsed onto the floor. She looked at her own chest, her light’s thumps slowly petering out too. Soon enough, she fell on the floor next to The Maker. Even as The Maker’s life waned, he looked around his workshop. His life’s creations, slowly and meticulously repaired, and made into her. The Maker had no one to speak to, but in his last moments his mouth hinged open. In the voice of a child, a child who had hid from factory owners. A child who had only wanted to make his father happy with what he made. A child who had only wanted to make something with someone else. In this voice, he whispered one sentence. “If only things could go back to how it used to be.”               
                    No one came in to see The Maker’s workshop and learn of his death. The Empire bombed the city, and along with it everything The Maker and those before him had worked to create. Under the rubble of all the buildings, only one part of The Maker survived. Protected by the many layers he had built over it, the red flashing light of his heart. It is because of this that The Maker would never be forgotten. For as long as The Maker’s soul existed, it would always find a new home. As the Empire rebuilt the new city, a young child from the slums would wander into the old ruins. He would find the rubble of the workshop, and with what he found began to build things to show to his mother.