The workstation is empty. Whoever dropped off the convertible for repair came to pick it up about a half hour ago, so all that's left is a sparse tool cabinet. Elia stands in the middle of the space, arms crossed in front of her chest. Otto stares on from his own workstation — probably. She can feel his eyes on her back, an odd pressure between her shoulder blades and a tingling along her neck.

He's pitying her. Or it's all in her mind, but she dismisses that thought with a shake of her head.

Duffie's workstation — rather, no one's now — is suffocating: how barren it is, how quiet. She did this; she drove them away. Her crossed arms tighten, constricting around her chest and digging into her ribs.

On top of the cabinet, a sliver of afternoon light pierces the clouds and glints off the mirror-like, metal shaft of a screw driver. Her heart freezes at the image; her breath hangs in her throat, burning. The polished, gold surface of her pocket mirror flits through her mind. It's close. Just through the door to her office and nestled among papers in the top drawer of her desk.

Otto lays a hand on her shoulder. "They're going to be okay, you taught them everything they need."

The burning sensation grows, peppering her chest with bursting sparks of pain. She shrugs off Otto's hand. "That's not it."

His hand hovers nearby and confusion tints his voice. "Oh? Sorry, boss. What is it?"

She hurries over to the tool cabinet and glares back at him. "The other night doesn't mean I'm going to spill everything out to you." She jerks open the top drawer. Tools clatter and she stares down at the jumbled mess of ball-peen hammers, screwdrivers, and socket wrenches.

The burning only gets worse: it spreads up her throat and permeates her thoughts. She picks up a socket wrench and twists her palms against its handle until her knuckles go white. Today's been hard enough, so it only makes sense to use it... I deserve the peace.

Otto takes a couple, hesitant steps toward her. "Right, right. Sorry. I could clean up their station for you. Would that help?"

She speaks before she can think; a singular word cuts through the air, jagged and harsh like an old hacksaw. "No."

He falls silent. Afraid of an outburst. Afraid to even move, probably. An unintentional breath flushes away the burning sensation and her mind clears, only for guilt to pock her heart. Shit. She slips the socket wrench into an empty satchel of her toolbelt and rests her weight on the top of the cabinet. "I'm sorry." She tips her head to look at him, but the guilt is too much: she stares into the distance of the shop and searches for what to say. "I — I just need to do this. It's my responsibility."

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His voice is even, calm. "Okay. Sorry for butting in." He shifts his weight back there and a few seconds later, the screech of metal on concrete echoes around the shop.

Elia whips around. "What are you —"

Otto stares right at her, his still-coverall-wearing ass firmly planted in a stool that he drug over from his own workstation. "I can keep you company at least?"

With a shrug, she keeps sorting through the tools. "You could have kept me company from over there, but fine. Sure. Don't expect a conversation."

He yanks a phone from inside his partially-undone coveralls and taps at it. "I wouldn't dream of it."

"No music either."

His finger freezes inches away from what must be a play button. He winces, but does his best to disguise it as a smile. "Ah... right. Okay. Can do, boss."

Time passes. Slowly. Thirty actual minutes, maybe? Picking up each tool, putting some back in the cabinet in some semblance of order, putting others in her toolbelt for organizing later... It feels like it's been a few hours to her: a few hours of busy work that didn't actually help distract her from the guilt.

However long it was, it was at least long enough for Otto to nod off. Arms crossed and snoring a bear's snore, his bald head bobs toward his chest in between each breath.

I tried, I sat with it, I did something. I deserve a break now.

The thought feels like it isn't hers. Instant, automatic, and primal. A longing that whispers at the back of her mind. The front too. Everywhere a feeling or motivation or desire could possibly be, the need for a break weighs her down. She could get everything done if she just didn't have to deal with... this. Feelings, emotions.

Anger.

I deserve it. I do. It's been a hard day.

She starts toward her office, toward the desk drawer where the pocket mirror waits for her. Otto's snores grow louder in her ears — or maybe just in her mind. Thunderous and unbearable anger swells. Why is he here? Why won't he leave me alone and let me deal with this myself?

She rips open the top drawer of her desk.

There it is: a matte gold disk with etched flowers coiling near the edges. She grabs it and digs at the seam between the two halves with her nails. Come on, open.

That hurtle is just enough for her mind to hang, her eyes to wander. Back where the pocket mirror was moments before, her daughter smiles up from a glass-scratched picture. Timeless and unchanging. A better time — a memory. A memory that ignites a feeling of warmth and dulls the pain of grief and guilt ever so.

Elia's hand dangles to her side, still clutching the unopened mirror. "I'm being ridiculous." She collapses backwards into her chair. "I said I wouldn't, what am I doing?"

Metal clatters on concrete out on the shop floor and the sound of Otto's boots stampede toward her. He slams against the door frame palms-first with eyes wide and concern furrowing his brow. "Boss! Boss, are you good?"

Her thumb traces the pocket mirror's engraved flowers. She drifts her gaze from the desk toward the towering form of Otto in the doorway. "I didn't use it. Almost did."

His brow relaxes. "Okay, okay. That's good then."

They both stare in silence: Otto at Elia, and Elia at anywhere but Otto. Like out the office window to a shop that feels far emptier that it did this morning.

She grumbles to her feet and tosses the mirror back into the drawer. "I'm going to get dinner, come if you want."