[wʊd]

The hard fibrous material that forms the main substance of the trunk or branches of a tree or shrub, used for fuel or timber

The wood once had breath and life of its own... until it was stolen and turned into an imitation of its original state.

Oh, the follies of mankind against the surrounding life.

The ticks of the clock reverberated beneath his feet; its inverted face visible beyond the multitude of endlessly turning gears and swinging pendulums. The moonlight shone through the thick glass and weaved its way through the maze of machinery, only to bleach Donghae's room and figure of colour. His fingers found the switch and flicked it on; the bulb flickering on as it hung from a line of wires crisscrossing the endless expanse of air beneath a ceiling so high, it formed a black void above Donghae.

It was the empty sky he fell asleep to every night.

The warm glow washed over the room and the ticks dimmed; every sudden movement of the second hand appearing to welcome him home rather than threaten to push him over the edge. Donghae gently laid the duck on the table, arranging it so that it would be as comfortable as possible in the cold chill of the night. Its beaded eyes glinted its thanks and he smoothed down its plume of feathers briefly before picking up stray tools, gears and various pieces of machinery from around the room and placing them back in their respective places.

The floor was strewn with stray handfuls of straw which had dislodged from the hay bales he kept stacked in the corner of the attic-like room. Donghae swept them up, careful to avoid the miniature set of rails winding about the room; the train bound to creep up on him silently, only to hoot and blow steam into his face whenever he least expected it.

There weren't many spell casters left in the city since the war had begun; most of them having been summoned by the Mastarierd to do their duty by serving their country with their powers, Donghae's brother included. These were dark times indeed, yet the tense, foreboding vibe of the oncoming war did not affect the serenity of the toy shop; so far was it from the main cobbled roads where the tanks filed past and the masses cheered on rank upon rank of soldiers.

Donghae could hardly see the light of the celebrations through the opaque glass of the clock face, let alone from the shop window.

His room could hardly be called noisy, yet the traces of magic still left behind by his brother's creations lingered and fluttered to life as he passed them; welcoming him home with creaking tenderness. Donghae stripped down to his underwear; hanging each item of clothing almost reverently over the wooden chair's backrest.

His work apron; powdered with sawdust until only a portion of the speckles of paint were visible beneath the layer. He would have to clean it before attending to the shop tomorrow. His dark ochre cardigan, so worn that it had been bleached to a dull grey and its material was nearly transparent. His felt suspenders, oversized white cotton shirt and brown shorts. His knee length woollen socks were deposited in a bucket at the foot of his bed, to be washed on Saturday.

Donghae twisted a stray lock of his hair behind his ear and rubbed at the inner corner of his eye with a finger; sleep drowning him in the blurred flashes of his constantly flickering eyelids. The bed called his name and he tucked back a corner of the thick patchwork  quilt, slipped his thin frame between the sheets and shivered, more so from the expanse of emptiness around him than the chill of the night. The lights dimmed and faded; the clock's own way of sending him to sleep.

Donghae did not notice the lone flickering light in the room as the duck's glass eyes reflected the moonlight still filtering through the glass.

The wind blustered with a piercing whistle around him and its cold fingers seemed to drift right through all the layers of his clothing. Donghae wrapped the edges of his cardigan tighter around his body and bent his head into the cutting air as he blindly d for the first of the iron rungs rising up out of the clock-piece's interior and up into the roof of the station hall where a narrow path twisted between pipes and meters; the metal grate at the end of its maze opening into a small isolated lane not far from the toy shop.

It was a wonder that nobody had noticed his minute figure slowly climbing up the pole from which the clock hung. Perhaps the steam rising from the trains in dark heavy plumes hid him from their view or maybe nobody bothered to look above the clock face at the twist of chains and metal where a thin iron ladder lay hidden. Maybe Donghae was too minute a presence in the minds of the people milling around the station that they hardly registered his mere existence, let alone his actions and antics.

Yes, that was probably it.

He could hear the shouts of the porters and the sharp trill of the stationmaster's whistle. The calls of the vendors advertising their wares, the wails of the beggars and the cries of small lost children were magnified through the vents and pipes around the station; all leading up to the roof. The life behind them and the rich, vibrant souls which displayed themselves in the voices surrounded him and made tears well in his eyes from the sheer emotion behind them.

"Warm." Donghae whispered and the voices murmured back; echoes of the word drifting between the cold metal and still air. "They're so warm."

The duck tucked snugly into the crook of his arm twitched in agreement and its eyes gleamed with a mysterious aura. Yes, the people below were so warm.

Warm were their breaths, their touch, their smiles.

Donghae wanted to drink it in like an aphrodisiac, for he was surrounded by cold metal hearts and false breaths in and out by mechanical pumps and batteries.

The sunlight filtered in golden streaks; illuminating the swirling vortex of dust particles and lighting up the back wall of bookshelves as it did every sunrise and sunset. Donghae spread the rolled canvas against the edge of the work bench, each little tool snugly slotted into their respective pouches and the assortment of nuts, bolts, screws and nails packed carefully in order of size, material and function.

The duck lay eagle spread on the textured wood with every feather drawn out to perfection. Its head lay tilted on its side; left eye glinting as though delighting in some private joke of which Donghae knew naught.

The door tinkled with its familiar ringing peal and Donghae paused in the setting up of his work to shift the infuriatingly silken sheen of his fringe away from his eyes as they had a tendency to slip from the tie he held them in during work.

It was a man and a woman; both sporting short platinum blonde hair and of similar heights with the man being s