She wasn't born. She was assembled . An inventor with trembling hands and a broken heart had built her from the scrap of a harvest festival and the soul of a lost daughter. Her spine was a polished piston, her fingers delicate pincer-claws, and her eyes—two amber glass lenses—held a soft, gaslit glow.
"Why do you tend to ghosts?" the neighbors asked, watching through smudged windows. lovely craft piston pumpkin girl
In the forgotten district of Ironwood, where steam wept from brass vents and gears sang lullabies to the cobblestones, everyone knew of her . She wasn't born