He stood in front of the engine.
The diesel engine, barely two years old, had stopped breathing for no apparent reason.
His dozens of experiences and the memory in his fingertips told him this should be an easy fix.
But this time was different.
He pressed the pump, replaced the hose, and traced the wires to check the signal.
Each time, a small spark of hope rose within him. *"Maybe this time."*
Yet when he pressed the start button, all that came back was the sound of the engine taking a short breath—then sighing into silence again.
A day passed, and then another.
He changed the parts, changed the methods, and in the end, even wanted to change himself.
But the engine never once smiled at him.
His life had always been like this—a job of fixing things.
People believed that whatever they handed to him would come back to life.
To avoid breaking that trust, he did his best.
But sometimes, even when his hands reached out, there were things that refused to be revived.
All he could do was endure, matching the weight of others' expectations.
People called him a technician.
But he knew.
Skill wasn't everything.
Perhaps, he was simply a man—someone who kept trying to mend what was broken.