Signs We Mend in the Dark

Ada Calder liked the smell of the van: solder gone soft at the edges, a permanent stain of burnt coffee in the crevice by the driver’s seat, and the electric tang that clung to metal like a promise. It was the vehicle of someone who healed light—practical, messy, and unromantic in the way only a technician could be. The street she rolled down at two in the morning smelled of wet pavement and frying dough; a vendor across from the community centre was braiding small crescent buns and calling them “moon tucks,” a specialty for hungry night-shift custodians. The bun stall had nothing to do with the job, and Ada liked that. The living parts of Eastmere—its market smells, its rickety porch gardens, the glass jars of sugared kelp people ate as snacks—reminded her that what she fixed fed people in more ways than one. She grinned at the vendor and parked under the halo of the damaged hearth-sign.

The hearth-sign was modest: a round glass tube the colour of brewed tea, mounted above the community centre where Ruth Kline ran knitting circles and late-night bread-sharing. It was one of those small neighborhood beacons that did more than illuminate doorways; the local people treated it like a magnet for moods. When it bloomed steady and warm, folks tended to sit longer with each other. When it hiccupped, tempers shortened and people left their tea half-sipped. Ada had learned to respect that. She shrugged on her weatherproof jacket, clipped the harness to the van, and hauled her ladder from the rack. The ladder complained with a metallic groan, and Ada told it to behave like a person who had seen worse—a joke, and the ladder and she had a tacit agreement about tolerances.

Ruth was waiting under an umbrella that smelled faintly of lavender and old books. ‘‘You and that van on a Tuesday,’’ she said, smiling. ‘‘What did you bring me this time, Ada? Another miracle or a bill?’’

Ada hooked her jaw and peered up. ‘‘Depends on whether miracles arrive with receipts. Let me take a look first, then I’ll invoice ruthfulness and caffeine taxes.’’ She climbed, fingers finding familiar holds along the ladder, the leather of her gloves whispering against rungs. Her hands moved like workhorses: efficient, blunt, and sure. They had to be. She popped the glass shield off the sign with a practiced twist, knelt on the platform, and slid the panel aside. Inside, tubes glowed dimly like embers; filaments traced their paths in neat loops and tiny knots where a previous repairer had braided wire like a stubborn seamstress. Ada probed, feeling for the rhythm of current like a doctor locating a pulse.