The Forgotten Gear
Alvie was no stranger to broken things. As a mechanic in a small 1950s Midwestern town, he spent his days coaxing life out of rusted engines and worn-out radios. But nothing prepared him for the gear.
He found it one rainy afternoon while rummaging through a box of odds and ends from an estate sale. At first glance, it looked like just another scrap—a tiny, polished cog no bigger than a dime. But its craftsmanship caught his eye. The teeth were impossibly intricate, etched with symbols so fine they seemed etched by a hand steadier than any human’s.
Curiosity got the better of him, and he turned it between his fingers. The moment his skin made contact, something strange happened. A jolt, like static electricity, raced up his arm. His vision flickered.
Images flooded his mind. Towering skyscrapers of glass and steel. Automobiles with no wheels, gliding effortlessly above the ground. Machines that spoke in voices too smooth to be real. Each vision came and went in the blink of an eye, leaving Alvie’s head spinning.
“What the hell…?” he muttered, staring at the tiny gear in disbelief.
In the days that followed, Alvie grew obsessed. He examined it under every magnifying glass and lamp he could find, but the symbols on its surface remained a mystery. Attempts to test its composition yielded nothing—it didn’t dent, scratch, or corrode. At night, he swore he heard faint murmurs coming from his workbench, though the shop was empty.
Then, one evening, a stranger arrived in town. He wore a sleek, tailored suit that didn’t fit the local fashion. His questions were sharper than his attire. Had anyone found anything unusual? A part, perhaps—something small, metallic, and important?
Alvie’s gut churned. He lied, shaking his head and feigning ignorance. The stranger’s piercing gaze lingered a moment too long before he left.
Alvie didn’t sleep that night. The gear wasn’t just a piece of scrap; it was part of something much larger, something that didn’t belong in 1952. He couldn’t risk it falling into the wrong hands. He pried up the floorboards of his workshop and buried it deep, sealing it away from prying eyes.
Still, he couldn’t shake the unease. The stranger had been too deliberate in his questions, his search too pointed. Someone had lost this gear—and someone would be coming for it.
When they did, Alvie would be ready.
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