It appeared to be a little mechanical bird, in a poorly, advanced state of rustness, but unarguably a beautiful piece of craftmanship. Underneath the worn out metal it was possible to observe an intricate welding work, delicately adorned by what once was bright red painting.

Meryl the Mole was intrigued.

“what is this?”

Mr. Rato was about to respond, but Max was faster:

“It is a Nightingale.”

To which Meryl the Mole responded, surprised:

“wow. how did you know? i couldn’t even determine if it was a bird, to begin with!”

Meryl would never lose the opportunity to throw some sass, even if it was directed to a possibly deadly Ancient Time Bender such as the one who was receiving them at his home.

“Mum loves birds. She’s always telling me the names of every bird we see.”

Mr. Rato proceeded his line:

“Very well, Max. This is, indeed, a Nightingale. Or, I rather should say, the mechanical representation of one. I was asked to construct one a long time ago, by someone very special, an old friend of mine, as a gift for another someone as special. Sadly, I was never able to finish it, and this is what is left. I keep it as a recordation, though. Of better times, simpler ones.”

And, pressing a little button located at the head of the little bird, a faint melody started to play, from a small music box located inside the heart of the nightingale.

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