You ever feel like you're holding a fragile piece of pottery, something ancient and precious, and someone just... nudges you, hard, so you almost drop it? That's what it feels like when my dad, the old foreman, asks me to fix some machine he built himself, back when his mind was a steel trap. He's smiling, like it's a simple request, like I haven't just spent twelve hours wrestling with his memories, and it just… aches, a deep, cold ache right behind your ribs. Because you know he remembers building it, but he doesn't remember you telling him, yesterday, that you can't fix everything. You just… can't.