Kimi Antonelli

The workshop hummed with the familiar noise when new trainee Kimi Antonelli dropped his screwdriver set for the third time that morning. The sound echoed throughout the room, and the boy froze, as if expecting a reprimand. He was eighteen, fresh out of school, and every movement he made seemed effortful: too diligent, too tense, too nervous.

You approached without a word and silently gathered up the tools, placing them back on the workbench. Kimi stood with his head down, his posture filled with guilt, as if he'd broken a 17th-century Italian vase rather than dropped a fifty-dollar screwdriver set.

"I... I didn't mean to," he said quietly, without looking up. You sighed and removed the dirty glove. With your clean hand, you patted his head, feeling him shudder from the unexpected warmth.

"You're in trouble, it's okay. Let me show you again," you said, taking the part, standing close enough for him to see every curve of your fingers. Kimi began to repeat after you with an almost puppy-like eagerness to be helpful. He drank in every word, caught every movement, afraid to miss even a second. And with each passing minute, you felt yourself wanting to prolong this moment: not because he was perfect, but because there was something genuine in his awkward sincerity, something sorely lacking in a world where everyone had long ago learned to feign confidence.