Austin’s porch faced the morning sun.
The dark wooden boards were smooth underfoot. The gutters carried rain into a gravel drain. The roof did not leak, the steps did not wobble, and the cedar rocking chair creaked in a way he liked.
He sat with a mug of roasted barley tea warming his hands. His hard hat hung from a peg beside his old tool belt. The golden wrench belonged to Tie Kuang now.
Pug slept on a sheepskin rug at his feet, all three heads resting on his paws. His inspection vest hung beside the hard hat. His four work booties stood in a neat row by the steps.
For a while, there was only tea, birdsong, and three quiet snores.
Below the ridge, Sunset Peak was waking. Water wheels turned along the canals. Bakers carried bread through the village. A repair crew waved to children on their way to school. Everyone stopped at the crossings, as Section 402 of the Universal Transit Code requires. The power lines hummed softly, and the new stars shone beyond the blue morning sky.
Two children came up the path with a basket.
“Uncle Chu,” the boy called.
