Memento

Rattle-clank. Rattle-clank.

I watched the old robot make its slow way up the path. Every morning and every evening it was the same thing. The poor little spud wasn’t made right, and one leg dragged. After months of this, I caught his attention as he passed by. “Look,” I said, “I’m mostly a hobbyist, but I could easily fix that leg for you. No charge.”

The robot’s eyes flickered. “No. Thank you.” It started to trundle away.

“Wait! Why not?”

It turned back. “I can see the hand of my maker in me. I would rather have that than perfection.”