TONIGHT, the night sky above the Emerald City was ablaze with color, but the fireworks—vivid sprays of green and gold—felt like a mocking display of triumph. Their shimmering light flickered off the emerald buildings, illuminating the streets below, where people roared in unison, swept up in a feverish celebration. The city seemed to pulse with exultant energy, but Boq, standing at its edge, felt disconnected, an observer of a world that no longer felt his own.
The palace gates loomed like an oppressive presence, their cold shadows cutting through the warm flickering light. People surged around him, a living mass of faces and bodies driven by the heat of the bonfire—a towering pyre built in the likeness of Elphaba, the Witch whose very name had once been a curse.
The effigy was grotesque, crude—a faceless mockery of the woman he had once known. Flames lashed at her form, devouring it with a ferocity that shook Boq to his core. Each crackle of the fire sounded like the last breath of something dying. The fire cast twisted shadows that danced and writhed like spirits caught in an eternal struggle.
The crowd's cheers rose, their collective voice an overwhelming tidal wave. Someone shouted, their tone sharp with glee, and others followed, their laughter laced with something darker, something vengeful. Boq's tin frame trembled—not from the heat, but from the weight of it all.
His hands, stiff and cold, balled into fists at his sides. He had once wished for this moment—had begged for Elphaba's death—but now it felt wrong. A single tear slid down his tin cheek, its path marked by the faintest trail of rust. He didn't wipe it away. It wasn't the fire that caused it. Not really.
A woman brushed past him, her voice high and bright as she pointed at the bonfire. "Good riddance!" she cried, her words seething with satisfaction. "Burn her to ash, just like she deserves!"
Boq's chest—a hollow, empty thing—rattled as if it might break under the weight of it. The noise, the bright fire, the joy in their faces—none of it made sense anymore. Not here, not now. The crowd's jubilance was an affront to everything he had once believed, to everything he had once fought for.
"Tin Man?" The Scarecrow's voice broke through the chaos, a thread of calm in the madness. Boq turned, catching a glimpse of his friends, but the crowd pulled them away, lost in the noise. Children surrounded the Lion, their innocent laughter ringing out, while someone spun the Scarecrow into an impromptu dance. "These folks are bouncing around like corn in a hot kettle!" the Scarecrow called, his voice barely reaching Boq over the swell of the crowd. "Try to find us later if you can!"
Boq tried to call after them, but the words got caught in his throat. His voice felt foreign to him now, mechanical. His friends were swallowed by the mass of people, leaving him to face the crowd alone.
For a moment, he froze, acutely aware of his isolation. And then—like a ripple moving through water—the crowd began to notice him.
"There he is!" someone shouted. "One of the heroes who brought down the Witch!"
The voices turned, and Boq's tin frame stiffened. His body felt foreign, like a cage that could not contain the weight of his guilt.
"Please," he whispered, but no one seemed to hear. The crowd surged forward, their faces illuminated by the fire, their eyes wide with unrestrained adulation. They reached for him, their hands trembling with something like hunger, their touch sharp and invasive.
"Did you watch her die?"
"Was she afraid at the end?"
"Show us how you would have swung your axe!"
The questions were relentless, each one like a blow that sent a hollow shudder through his body. These were good people—shopkeepers, teachers, parents—but now, they were like wolves, drawn to the scent of blood. Their joy sickened him. It was no longer a celebration of victory. It was a celebration of death.
His voice faltered. "It wasn't like that," he tried to explain, but the words came out wrong. They didn't want the truth. They wanted a hero's tale, a simple narrative of good conquering evil, a confirmation of their righteousness. His silence only made them more desperate.
A man thrust a flask into his hands. "A toast to the Witch's death!" he declared, already slurring his words, his face flushed with drunken triumph. The crowd cheered.
Boq's fingers brushed against the flask, his hands cold and stiff. "I... I'm afraid I can't," he whispered apologetically. "You see, being made of tin... well, it makes things rather difficult..."
"Then tell us how it felt," someone pressed, their voice eager. "Watching the Wicked Witch melt. Did she scream? Did she beg?"
Boq's breath caught in his throat. The questions cut deeper than any blade could, each one a reminder of the part he had played in the events that had led them here. But all he could think of was Elphaba's face in that final moment—her expression a mixture of desperation and horror as she melted.
The crowd's enthusiasm built to a fever pitch, and Boq felt himself becoming overwhelmed by it—their thirst for violence, their demand for blood. The heat from the bonfire pressed closer, making the air around him thick, and suffocating.
"Come on, Tin Man," a woman cooed, grabbing his arm. "Give us a speech! Tell us how you helped defeat her!"
But he couldn't. He couldn't speak, couldn't pretend this was what he had wanted, couldn't pretend he was part of the celebration. The flames twisted in the firelight, and for a moment, Elphaba's face seemed to appear in the flames—twisted and contorted, but undeniably hers.
"Speech!" they chanted, their voices rising like a tidal wave.
"I'm sorry, but I—" Boq's voice broke. Panic seized his mechanical frame. He tried to pull away, but the crowd tightened around him, pressing him closer to the flames.
A bottle shattered against the cobblestones nearby, making him flinch. The celebration had become a frenzy, wild and uncontrollable. They weren't just demanding answers from him—they were demanding that he be their symbol of triumph, their representative of justice.
But he wasn't. He was just a man made of tin, hollow and empty, caught in a world that had forgotten how to mourn.
"The Witch is dead!" someone screamed, throwing another bottle into the flames.
Boq couldn't stay. Not here. Not with them. The heat threatened to seize his joints, the noise crashed against his tin frame, the faces too eager for his pain. He turned, his joints protesting with every step, and pushed through the crowd, ignoring their calls, ignoring their chants.
"Please e-excuse me," he muttered, his voice barely audible. "The heat from the fire... my joints..."
He moved slowly, deliberately, his body rigid with the effort to remain calm.
One step. Just one more step.
But he couldn't escape the sound of their joy, the image of the burning effigy, or the hollow emptiness inside him that seemed to echo with each breath.
Finally breaking free of the crowd, Boq stumbled onto the clearer ground near the palace gates. The burning effigy loomed behind him, its face seeming to sneer down at him through the flames, hollow eyes burning as the fire consumed it. The sight made his tin frame shudder, a phantom weight pressing harder and harder in his chest until he thought he might collapse.
He needed to get away. His movements jerky and uneven, he climbed the marble steps and slipped through the towering doors. The cool shadows of the palace closed around him like a shield, muting the persistent roar of the celebration outside. His footsteps echoed faintly in the empty corridor, tin joints clinking with each step.
The palace corridors stretched before him, branching left and right at the end of the long hallway. Boq halted at the junction, suddenly aware of the silence behind him. No hurried footsteps of the Scarecrow or Lion echoing on the stones, no friends rushing to catch up.
Part of him ached for their presence, even as he dreaded what he might say if they appeared. The thought made his frame tense with self-directed fury.
No - he couldn't let his anger soften, couldn't let the hurt dull. His joints locked at the next intersection as the image burned in his mind: that terrible effigy in flames, looking so much like Elphaba that his hollow chest felt ready to cave in. He felt tears threatening to spill over, and he needed to be alone before they broke free.
At last, his frantic gaze found salvation - a windowless alcove, tucked away and forgotten. His tin legs carried him into its shadowy embrace, where he pressed himself against the wall, metal hands gripping the smooth emerald surface as his tin frame shuddered.
"Please," he choked out, his tinny voice quivering like a loose joint. "Stop this... stop it, please..."
The heart clock pinned on his chest ticked faintly, its steady rhythm taunting him with its mechanical persistence. A poor substitute for what he'd lost, never to be a real heartbeat. Boq's tin fingers scraped against his chest, the sound sharp and pitiful.
"Oh... she's really gone now," he whispered, his voice quivering like a leaf. "Gone forever, and I... oh, I just don't know what to...The Wit—oh, Elphaba is gone, and here I am still, just a…just a…" His words dissolved into a sound somewhere between a creak and a sob. "Ugh, I—I'm going to rust at this rate," he rasped as tears tracked down his tin cheeks, each one threatening to freeze his face and seize his joints. But he couldn't stop them, couldn't halt the flood of emotion that poured from his hollow frame.
The memory hit him suddenly like a hammer striking metal—Elphaba's voice rising in that terrible chant, the spell that had stripped away his flesh and blood. His tin fingers scrabbled against his chest as the horrific memory played out in his mind with cruel clarity.
"No…no…" he moaned, his voice growing more mechanical with each sob. "Elphaba," he whispered, her name catching in his throat like old rust. Behind his closed eyes, her face appeared with painful sharpness—those eyes blazing with fierce determination as his consciousness had faded, his heart contracting to nothing. She had tried to save him that night, he knew that now. But his salvation had come at such a terrible price.
"Look what you made of me," he creaked, his words dissolving into static-filled sobs. One tin hand left his chest to touch his hair—once soft dark brown waves, now frozen in tin, frozen in tousled waves that gave the illusion of softness despite being rigid and unyielding. Each strand was crafted to look windswept as if caught in a moment of movement that would never come. "A tin man, just a hollow thing without a heart. Even my hair won't move in the breeze anymore, every curl preserved in tin like some terrible statue. I hated you for it!" His fist clanged against the wall. "I wanted you gone, wanted you to hurt like I hurt, and now…" His voice hitched, joints squeaking. "Now that you're gone, I feel…I feel hollower than ever."
The tears kept falling, and Boq noticed his joints growing stiffer. He should care about that, should reach for his oil can, but he couldn't bring himself to move. Let him rust here in this alcove - perhaps that would be fitting. A tin statue frozen in grief for the witch who had both saved and cursed him.
Suddenly, a faint sound made Boq freeze mid-sob. Footsteps echoed across the brick floor, drawing closer. His joints locked in panic—why now? The urgency of the moment sent a jolt through his tin frame. His mechanical limbs creaked as he desperately scanned the alcove for another hiding spot. But it was too small—too exposed. The footsteps were nearing, light and uncertain, but unmistakably heading his way. His bulky metal body was far too loud and conspicuous to slip past unnoticed.
The last thing he needed was for anyone to see the so-called great Tin Man of Oz, crumpled and crying like some rusted fool in a forgotten corner.
Before he could react, a small figure in green darted into the alcove at full speed, clearly trying to avoid being seen. The collision was sudden and jarring—a startled gasp—and before he could brace himself, they both tumbled to the floor. His tin frame clanged loudly as he hit the ground, and the figure landed on top of him, an awkward tangle of dress and limbs.
For a long, disoriented moment, they were both sprawled on the floor, her face mere inches from his. Boq watched her chest rise and fall with rapid breaths, acutely aware of the weight pressing against his tin frame though he couldn't feel its warmth. His tin body was too stiff to move quickly, leaving him dazed and still as he tried to make sense of the situation.
Through the fog of confusion, he took in the figure's features—a young woman, pale skin and petite, framed by waves of dark hair that brushed against his metallic surface. He felt a strange tightening in his hollow chest that had nothing to do with his joints, an echo of the way his heart might have raced in his old life at finding himself in such a position with a beautiful young woman.
"A-are you alright?" Boq gasped, instinctively reaching out to steady her, his tin hands awkwardly pressing against her shoulders as she remained sprawled across him.
"Sweet Lurline! I-I'm so sorry, sir, but I must have squashed you!" she squeaked, her voice high and frantic, palms pressed firmly against his chest plate as her face came dangerously close to his. Her breath was shallow and quick as if the collision had stolen it away. Her large, almond-shaped brown eyes went wide as she realized exactly who she had crashed into. Long dark lashes fluttered in disbelief, and her expression froze for a long moment.
Boq's heart clock skipped a tick. He braced himself for the familiar reaction. Her shock, her fear. But instead, her face remained full of something else. Curiosity. Maybe even awe. Her eyes didn't flinch or dart away from his tin body. Flushed a deep cherry red with embarrassment, she scrambled to push herself off him, awkwardly shifting her weight. Unusually tall for a Munchkin—as Boq had been before his transformation—she nearly came up to his tin chin. Brown waves of hair tumbled over her shoulders, framing her face as she desperately tried to regain her composure. Her hands slipped against his tin surface in the effort. The young woman wore a deep emerald dress with puffed sleeves and golden trim, the signature "M" of Munchkinland's dressmakers embroidered on its bodice—chosen for the Emerald City's celebrations.
"Y-You… you're him," she breathed, her voice barely more than a whisper, trembling with awe. She blinked rapidly, her mind struggling to clear the fog of disbelief. "The Tin Man?"
Boq felt her shifting awkwardly atop him, her weight pressing down slightly, and he awkwardly cleared his throat as she scrambled to push herself upright. Her hands slid helplessly over his smooth tin surface.
"Ugh, stupid me, I'm making such a mess of everything!" she stammered, wringing her hands. "I-I was just trying to hide from... well, everything was so overwhelming, and now I've gone and crashed into you and... oh please, I haven't dented you, have I?!"
"Oh no... please don't worry yourself," Boq said gently, his voice soft and uncertain. "I'm quite alright..." His body still felt unnaturally stiff. "No dents to speak of. Though I do hope I didn't... er, that is, I'm afraid I'm not exactly the softest thing to run into, and you hit me quite hard..." He gave a nervous laugh, his tin hands shifting awkwardly as he adjusted his funnel cap.
"Ryn," she blurted out, then her eyes widened in mortification. "My name—I mean, Ryn! And I'm so, so sorry about falling into your chest. Though, you were the one crying, weren't you? Not that there's anything wrong with that!"
"Oh, uh... just a little trouble with my eyes," Boq stammered softly. "All those celebrations, you see... they get so very... oh, sometimes it's all too much..." His tin hands shifted uncomfortably at his sides, and he adjusted his funnel cap again as if trying to distract himself from his discomfort. Boq quickly looked away, his tin frame stiffening with self-consciousness. He could feel his joints creaking nervously as his mind raced for anything to divert attention from his earlier grief. "And you… that is…" Boq cleared his throat, trying to focus. "I couldn't help but notice you seemed a bit overwhelmed yourself. Are you... quite all right, miss?" His tin fingers clicked together, betraying his nervousness. He shifted uncomfortably, wishing the floor would swallow him up, but trying to keep his tone steady.
Ryn flinched, her arms wrapping around herself as her flustered embarrassment shifted to something more vulnerable.
"Oh, you must think I'm absolutely silly - stupid me, getting overwhelmed by a simple celebration," she said, her voice trailing off into a nervous laugh. "It's just... all those crowds, and I... well, I'm not very good at... at any of this. All those people pressing in, everyone shouting and celebrating, and that…" She shivered slightly. "That effigy outside. I know we're supposed to be happy the Witch is dead, but something about it feels…" She trailed off, struggling to find the right words.
"Wrong? Like something's not quite right?" Boq offered gently, his tin fingers clicking together. "Like it's all a bit too much?"
"Yes! Yes, that's exactly it!" Relief flooded her features at his understanding. "I can't quite explain why, but watching it burn..." She hugged herself tighter, her words tumbling out faster. "I just needed somewhere quiet to... oh, stupid me, I'm babbling again, aren't I? You must think I'm so foolish, hiding away from a celebration like this."
"Not at all! N-not foolish at all," Boq said quickly, his voice warm and earnest. "Sometimes the hardest moments are the ones where everyone else is celebrating and you…well, you just can't quite join in." His hollow chest dented with the truth of his words. "All those crowds and that awful fire…it's enough to make anyone want to hide away in here, isn't it?"
"Thank you," Ryn said softly, her shoulders relaxing slightly. Then she tilted her head, studying him. "You're from Munchkinland too, aren't you? Something in the way you speak—it reminds me of home."
Boq's tin frame stiffened momentarily. "I... yes. Though it feels like a lifetime ago now." His gaze drifted to the "M" embroidered on her bodice. "Your dress—Mistress Mince's shop, isn't it? The one near the Governor's mansion?"
"Oh! Yes, you're right!" Her eyes lit up, then immediately dimmed with embarrassment. "My aunt's the seamstress there now. She made this for me but I...I haven't even had a proper occasion to wear it until tonight..." Her voice trailed off as footsteps echoed down the corridor.
The sound reminded Boq of how vulnerable she was out here alone. His gaze drifted to the window, where the celebrations outside showed no sign of slowing and seemed likely to stretch well into the night.
It surprised him how quickly he was talking himself into offering to walk her home. His gaze drifted back to Ryn, taking in how pale she looked under the soft glow of the lantern light that streamed in through the window. Her hands trembled slightly, clasped tightly as though she were trying to steady herself. The sight struck a chord deep within Boq, stirring a protective instinct he hadn't felt since before Dorothy had gone—a feeling raw and achingly human.
"Uh, perhaps I could…walk you home, to wherever you're staying?" Boq offered, his tin hand making a little nervous gesture. "You shouldn't have to brave all those crowds alone again, not when they're making you so uncomfortable." His tin joints creaked softly as he straightened his gait. "Please, let me take you back. It's...well, it's much nicer to have company on nights like this."
Ryn's cheeks flushed a lovely shade of pink, reminding Boq of the mountain laurel that used to grow near his cottage on the outskirts of Munchkinland.
"Oh! Actually, I... I should have mentioned - I work here in the palace," she said, tugging nervously at her emerald skirt. "In one of the royal salons. I have a little room in the servants' wing. I'm just a hairdresser, you see. Tonight I was supposed to be enjoying the celebrations instead of... well..." She gestured vaguely at their hiding spot, her cheeks flushing.
"A hairdresser?" Boq brightened, then immediately felt foolish as he reached up to touch his metallic curls. "That's...that's… that's wonderful! I mean—" He paused, suddenly aware of his metal hands gesturing enthusiastically. His tin fingers clinked together nervously. "Though I suppose I'm not much of a customer anymore, being made of tin and all. Not much styling to be done with these." He tapped his head with a hollow tink, a soft, albeit nervous chuckle escaping his lips.
The corner of Ryn's mouth quirked up in a shy smile, some of her earlier fear seeming to fade. "I don't know about that. Your curls are quite elegantly crafted, even in tin. Whoever… whoever made you this way had quite an eye for detail."
Boq's joints stiffened for a moment at the mention of Elphaba, but he forced a smile. "Given that we're both staying here, may I walk you home? These corridors are much quieter than those dreadfully crowded streets outside."
Ryn nodded, relief washing over her features. "I'd like that very much. Thank you. Though…" She glanced nervously toward the corridor, then down at her hands. "Could we perhaps... that is if it's not too much trouble..." She bit her lip, then words spilled out in a rush. "Could we take the long way? Through the kitchens? I know it's asking too much, but I'd rather not pass by any windows right now. The sight of that bonfire..."
"Y-yes, of course!" Boq agreed, perhaps too eagerly, his voice carrying a gentle tremor. "The back corridors are so much nicer for a quieter walk anyway."
He offered her his arm before his nerve could fail him, then almost drew it back, suddenly aware of his tin frame. But Ryn was already reaching for it, her small hand resting delicately in the crook of his elbow as if the cool tin didn't bother her at all.
They began walking, their footsteps creating an odd harmony—her soft slippers and his metallic steps echoing in the empty hallway. The distant sounds of the celebration grew fainter as they moved deeper into the palace.
Boq's mind raced as he searched for something to talk about, anything to keep that awful silence from settling in between them. The last thing he wanted was for her thoughts to drift back to why she'd found him crying in an alcove.
"Have you…" Boq cleared his throat with a slight squeak. "Oh, if you don't mind my asking... have you been here in the palace long? Working in the salons, that is..."
"Only about two weeks, actually," she admitted, fidgeting with her sleeve. "The Palace Steward brought me on when one of the other girls left suddenly. Something about her sister being ill in Gillikin..." She glanced up at him, then quickly away. "Though sometimes I wonder if I'm really qualified. Most of the other stylists are much older, with years of experience in the Upper Grande Salons. And Lady Glinda doesn't even use our services!"
"I simply can't believe that. You must be wonderful at what you do if the Palace Steward himself chose you," Boq said softly, his tone encouraging, his tin joints making a soft clicking sound as they walked. "I've never met him myself, but I hear he's as fussy as a cat in a rainstorm about who works in the palace."
The distant sound of fireworks made Ryn jump slightly, her hand tightening on his arm. Through the windows, they could see the colored lights reflecting off the emerald walls.
"Would you like to walk a bit faster?" Boq offered, his voice gentle with concern as he noticed Ryn's tension. "The kitchen entrance is just around that bend there. This place can be a bit of a maze if you don't know where to go. Just the other day I got so turned around in these corridors that I ended up in the laundry instead!" He gave a nervous little laugh, hoping to distract her from her fears, trying to lift her spirits despite his nervousness.
"Yes, please," she whispered, her gaze darting nervously to the shadows behind them. "I'm being silly again, aren't I? It's just…I keep thinking I hear…"
Another sound echoed through the corridor—this one distinctly like footsteps, slow and measured.
"There's nothing to worry about," Boq tried to calm the flustered young woman, though his joints creaked anxiously as they quickened their pace. "These old corridors are full of funny echoes. Sometimes my own footsteps sound like there's a whole parade of tin men behind me!"
Ryn gave a small, grateful smile at his attempt to lighten the mood, though her hand remained tight on his arm as they walked. They made their way through the quiet corridors, the sounds of the celebration outside the palace growing more distant with each turn. Only the sound of their footsteps broke the silence between them—her soft slippers and his metallic steps creating an odd harmony against the stone floor.
"It's just through here," Ryn said finally, gesturing to a smaller hallway lined with identical wooden doors, all painted green, of course. She slowed at one marked with a small brass number, fumbling slightly with a key she procured from her pocket. "Thank you for walking with me. I know it must seem silly, being so overwhelmed by a celebration, but..."
"No, it's not silly at all," Boq assured her, his voice gentle and more serious. "After all, what is a hero for if not to help a lady in distress?" He quickly realized how grandiose that sounded the moment it left his mouth and immediately regretted it. Boq winced and touched his funnel cap self-consciously. "I-I mean…that is to say…I was happy to help. Even if I'm not much of a hero these days."
"But you are!" Ryn said earnestly, turning to face him in her doorway. "You helped defeat the Wicked Witch of the West, and now you've been so kind to me when you could have just…" She trailed off, her cheeks flushing pink again as she seemed to remember how they'd just met. "Well, when you probably wanted to be alone."
"Uh, -no! I just..." Boq stammered, his words tumbling out in a rush. "That is to say… well… sometimes being alone isn't all it's cracked up to be, even if you think it is." His tin fingers clinked together as he fidgeted nervously. "A-and, if I'm honest, meeting you tonight has made things… well, a good deal less difficult than they might've been otherwise."
The truth of his words caught him off guard. The hollow ache in his chest over Elphaba's death still lingered, but somehow, meeting Ryn tonight had shifted something. It reminded him that there were still people in Oz worth protecting, worth caring for.
"Would you... oh, this is probably silly, but..." She hesitated, biting her lip before gathering her courage. "Would you like to come in for a cup of tea? I have a little stove, and—oh!" Her hand flew to her mouth, her cheeks burning red. "Oh no! How thoughtless - you probably can't drink or eat, can you? Being made of tin... Ugh, I'm making such a mess of everything!"
Boq blinked at her, momentarily stunned by the kind offer. "Oh, no! That is…well, you're quite right, I'm afraid," he said with a nervous chuckle, tapping his hollow chest lightly. "Tin doesn't take kindly to tea. Or biscuits. Or, well, anything." He tried to make light of it, but the admission left a faint pang in his empty chest.
Her face fell. "I didn't mean to—gracious, I've done it again, haven't I?" she stammered, covering her mouth with her hands. "I wasn't trying to... oh, I'm so sorry! I... I don't even know what to call you."
Boq froze, caught off guard. What to call him? For so long, he had simply been the Tin Man. No one had asked him for his name since…since before.
The memory stirred something bittersweet in his hollow chest, but before he could think better of it, the words tumbled. "Boq," he said, his voice softer than he'd expected. He adjusted his funnel cap, nervous now that he'd said it aloud. "My name is Boq."
Ryn lowered her hands, her mortified expression shifting to something gentler. "Boq," she repeated quietly, as though testing the name. "That's... well, it's a lovely name. It suits you."
Her words left him oddly flustered, and he chuckled awkwardly, rubbing the back of his tin neck. Something stirred in his hollow chest at her words. 'That's... that's kind of you to say."
Her lips curved into a small smile. "It's the truth." She hesitated, then looked up at him again, her expression growing softer. "Thank you for telling me, Boq. It feels... special somehow."
Boq's tin frame trembled slightly, caught off guard by the warm sincerity in Ryn's voice. Something deep in his hollow chest seemed to stir. He shifted on his creaking joints, unsure what to say.
For so long, he had just been the Tin Man, clanking about Oz with no purpose beyond the small scraps of heroism others gave him. Hearing his true name spoken after so long—a name tied to a life long gone—felt like a small ember of hope rekindling in the emptiness.
"Well, uh, special is…well, that's quite a word," Boq said softly, his tin fingers still nervously clicking together, a nervous habit of his he'd never been able to break, "but it's awfully kind of you to say. It's nice to be…well, remembered as someone, not just…something."
Ryn's gaze lingered on him, her smile softening further. "You're definitely someone, Boq," she said quietly, twisting her hands together. "A good someone."
For a moment, the world outside—fireworks, effigies, and celebrations—seemed to fade away. The quiet glow of the small corridor, the gentle tone of Ryn's voice, and the strange comfort of her presence felt like a shelter from the night's chaos.
"W-well, I should…" Boq rubbed the back of his neck gingerly. "I suppose I should let you get settled in for the evening. Can't keep you standing out here all night, can I?"
Ryn hesitated, her hand lingering on the doorframe. She parted her lips as if to speak, however, it took her a moment to find her voice. She hesitated, her hand lingering on the doorframe. Her words came out in a nervous rush. "Are you sure you'll be all right? You seemed... well, I don't mean to pry, but you looked a little overwhelmed earlier."
His hollow laugh echoed softly as he tapped his chest with an audible clink. "Don't worry about me. Made of tin, you know. Practically indestructible. Though…" His forced cheerfulness faltered at the worry in the young woman's brown eyes.
"I don't know," she said softly, tilting her head. "You've been through quite a lot tonight, haven't you?"
The gentle question caught him by surprise. Boq opened his mouth to respond but found no words came. Ryn's gaze didn't waver, and for the first time in what felt like ages, someone was looking at him not as the Tin Man, but as... Boq.
"I'll be just fine," he said finally, his voice quieter, more honest. "But thank you, Ryn. Really."
She nodded, her hand slipping away from the door frame. "If you ever need to talk, or... oh! Just need some company, you know where to find me." Her smile returned, small but genuine. "And if you ever need your tin curls touched up, I'd be happy to try. Though I might make a mess of it..." She caught herself and bit her lip.
Boq chuckled, the sound tinny but warm. "That's awfully kind of you. Thank you, I will consider that." He tipped his funnel cap slightly, offering her a small bow. "Goodnight, Miss Ryn."
"Goodnight, Boq," she replied softly, slipping inside her room and gently closing the door.
For a moment Boq stood there, his hollow chest seeming to echo with the memory of their conversation. The night outside still raged on, but the quiet warmth of the corridor lingered around him like a comforting shadow. With a soft creak of his tin joints, he turned and made his way back through the palace, the memory of Ryn's kind smile following him like a flicker of light in the dark.
Perhaps…. it wouldn't be so lonely here, after all.