The wooden door opened with the first lights of dawn. The youngest resident of the stone-block house, at an age and height where he could barely reach the doorknob, had been tasked the night before with the “epic quest” of retrieving eggs from the hencoop in the backyard. His mother believed it was time for her young one to take on responsibilities, even small ones. Tasking him with helping prepare breakfast carried no vital risks, as long as no one got poisoned. It was a suitable first step in the young one’s path toward great responsibilities, starting with eggs.

Two weeks ago, the household’s troublesome goat had smashed the front door with a headbutt. Though the patron of the house had made repairs and the new door had been silent ever since, now it creaked again. His father had oiled the hinges of the late door and mounted them on the new one.

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Curious about the goat’s fate? His mother had made stew from it, though that’s irrelevant to the current tale.​

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No matter how much oil was applied, the old hinges had every right to squeak, but the sound was still irritating. The boy closed the door behind him and listened to the squeak. He waited for three seconds, then reopened it. The noise repeated itself, still just as annoying. He waited another three seconds (he was fond of the number three) then shut the door. The results were utterly unsurprising. Once again, the sound vibrated through the air, and again, it was dreadfully irritating. Even the door itself would be annoyed if it had ears.

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The boy was not inconsiderate. On the contrary, he was overly sensitive to others, always putting effort into being aware of his surroundings. He wasn’t exactly oblivious, but his heightened awareness of everything else was what made him particularly sensitive. So why did he repeat the act again and again? Would it result in the untimely awakening of other household residents? Was it curiosity? Mischievousness?

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Because he was experimenting, and the results were shocking: the voice, in fact, did not emanate from the door.

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Though he wasn't part of the problem, perhaps he could be part of the solution. He began following the voice, cautiously walking down the narrow, dirty path that led to the main road, the only one that reached the nearby town.

The boy reached the fences surrounding the yard. He turned left, where the voice came from, and waited, resembling a meerkat on guard duty.

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The wait didn’t last long. Something on the sloppy road, surrounded by trees, caught his eye: a rod with a bell tied to its upper end, swinging left and right, rising behind the hill, attached to a carriage. The cart slowly moved into his field of view. It wasn’t a horse-drawn carriage, nor did it appear to be pulled by any animal the boy had ever seen.

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The cart had a stretched, claret-red tent over it, covered in and fastened with numerous gears and pipes. It wobbled and staggered, walking on four long, shaky metal legs clad in brown leather boots. Steam regularly erupted from its rusty, leaky copper pipes. Then it shook in place, scattering screws and nuts. It was towering, and the driver was still out of sight.

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A woman’s roaring voice echoed from the same direction. “May I ask when exactly you’ll oil that rusty tin of yours?”

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A man’s voice followed. “No!”

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The woman again. “I could sell you a bottle of oil I personally distilled. A single flask, just small drops, and it lasts long! It’s dirt cheap, almost a giveaway!”

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The man grunted. “Dear sister, I will not let you melt my beloved wheels for which I still haven’t found the right name! I’ll reach the next town before you, no matter what!”

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The woman, with renewed energy. “I’m seriously serious this time! There really is real oil in that bottle!”

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The man replied. "I trust you. What I find unreliable is your abilities as a sorceress and alchemist!"