The Echo of a Promise: Where Stories Begin It was a proper grey old morning, one of those typically British days when the sky just can't make its mind up, hinting at rain but never quite delivering. I was tucked away in my workshop, the scent of polishing compounds and freshly worked metal hanging in the air, a familiar comfort. There was a radio murmuring in the background, some gentle jazz, as I was going over some design notes, contemplating the flow of lines for a new piece. My old mate, Arthur, popped in, as he often does. Arthur, with his hands gnarled by years of honest work – he used t...
