23/08/2026
Sunday noon.
Scara sits there for a moment, staring at the half-finished wing frame.
“Right.”
He looks at it.
The wing looks back.
“…You’re still not going to build yourself, are you?”
Silence.
“Thought not.”
He gets up, stretches, makes a cup of tea, and immediately becomes distracted by the fact that it is Sunday.
“Technically, I could do absolutely nothing today.”
He considers this.
“…But then the wings won’t get done.”
Another sip.
“Fine. Wings.”
He gathers the aluminium tubing, fabric, tools and sewing bits around him.
“Today we make progress. Doesn’t have to be finished. Just progress.”
Pause.
“…And if the sewing machine decides to fight me again, I am throwing it into the garden.”
He looks toward the wings.
“Right. Let’s make a dragon.”
