In my early years. When I was only a small child I spent much of my time in the woods. 

The trees always seemed to watch, and whisper. Always calling me closer, to explore the secrets hidden behind their towering trunks, the shaded place that seemed to stretch on forever.

And after spending much of my first two decades of life my parents left that house in the woods. But instead of moving away along with them, I stayed. 

After almost 4 years of living there alone. Sustaining myself off the family fortune. I felt myself stagnating.

And one day, perhaps in my twentieth and second year of life, a knock came from the front door.

A peculiar occurrence, being in a place several miles away from civilization, visitors were few and far between.

I set my book down on the end table and started towards the door.

I turned the worn brass doorknob, the door swung inward. And found myself face to face with a robot. A rusted visage of a human built with cogs and gears that whirred with mechanical energy.

Two blue glass eyepieces seemed to contact my own eyes. "HELLO."

I raised my hand in a timid wave. "Hi there." It mimicked my waving motion, dirt and grime dislodged from its joints. 

It had no mouth, unless you counted the metal grate shaped into a half smile shape, giving it a friendly appearance. Those empty eyes were unsettling, nonetheless. 

The robot reached out a hand, composed of bits of copper piping, and intricate carved wood and metal. The thumb looked damaged, held together with two zip ties. 

The robot turned over the hand, showing me several metal coat buttons of different shapes and sizes, all in varying degrees of decay. 

"I NEED HELP"

The robot gestured to me with its free hand.

"Those are buttons" maybe the thing was crazy. It looked like it had been alone in the forest too long.

"YES. ONE BUTTON IS MISSING. I NEED HELP"

I raised an eyebrow, "what do you mean."

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Why are coat buttons useful to an old robot living in the woods?

"ONE BUTTON MISSING." The robot repeated. It gestured frantically to the buttons resting in its left palm.

Yep. Definitely crazy.

This was probably just a dream. So, I decided to play along.

I gestured for the robot to follow me and led it inside. 

My mom had once been a sewing fanatic. Since abandoning that hobby there were probably a few sewing supplies in this mansion of a house.

I motioned for the robot to take a seat in the parlor. It walked to the middle of the room and just stood there. It was so out of place here. The parts of the house I resided in were always pristine. This creature of metal and wood would probably be more well suited for the seemingly infinite number of rooms full of trinkets and objects of unknown origin. My father, being an inventor, had always been tinkering. Inventing. Perhaps this automaton was one of his many creations.

As I searched for sewing supplies, I came across many things. Things I hadn’t seen in my more than two decades of life. Clockwork creatures were hand crafted by my father. Ornate sculptures of broken parts. But among all these creatures and creations. All stood innate, unmoving.

Eventually I came across an embroidered box. It was filled with sewing supplies. Needles, pins, thread, and hundreds of buttons.

I returned to the parlor to find the robot studying the book I had been reading before. 

A first edition copy of the great Gatsby. The dust jacket was perfectly intact, protecting the precious book from the dust and grime of the robot’s hands.

“I found the buttons. Take your pick.”

It was like a child on Christmas. The robot set down the book and immediately started studying every button. One by one, it ordered them by size, color, shape, material, pattern, and even texture.

I picked up my book and continued reading.

For hours the robot was fiddling with the buttons. Placing them in perfect rows, ordered in a way I couldn’t even begin to imagine the logic behind.

Eventually I dozed off on the couch. The quiet running of gears and clinking of metal almost like an unholy lullaby. 

I dreamed strangely. Of my mother and father, of the forest, childhood memories morphing into strange fantasy of color and sound until I stood in a forest. And I heard a voice whispered in my ear.

Stagnation can be a great thief of joy. Everything has a purpose. What is yours. I hope this experience might teach you something of value.

Then I awoke to a great pain in my hands. I opened my eyes. Bolting upright.

Where was the robot?

Why where my hands covered in blood? Was it mine?

As I turned my hands over, I saw buttons. Sewed on to the undersides of my fingers.

I swore loudly. Tugging at one sewed to the soft part of my left thumb. 28 buttons, One sewed to each segment of my fingers. 

I looked around the room. And saw that it had all been rearranged. The remaining sewing supplies organized into concentric circles.

All the furniture – including the couch I had slept on – where arranged in a perfect circular shape around the center of the room. Where a tiny gold coin lay.

And as I searched the house for something to remove the buttons from my smarting fingers, I realized everything had been rearranged. Clutter turned into beautiful circular artworks in every room. My father’s creations repositioned or rebuilt altogether. Everything was different. Not a single thing the way it was before.

And now that I sit here. Going through the painstaking task of unpicking the buttons from my fingers, I wonder who sent that damned robot. That wonderful automaton that changed my life.