There are seven stages to realizing you’ve been reincarnated as a toolbox.

  Denial.

  Confusion.

  Drawer envy.

  Existential dread.

  Mild acceptance.

  Drawer envy again.

  And finally—petty vengeance.

  I have no idea what I did in my past life to deserve this. Maybe I cut someone off in traffic. Maybe I broke a sacred pact with a god of storage solutions. Who knows? All I know is that I died, and now my daily routine involves listening to an orc swear at lug nuts while a goat lectures me on tax codes.

  Welcome to Toolbox Thoughts, my ongoing internal monologue. Let’s talk about what I’ve learned in my first week as a metal box with feelings.

  1. Drawer Etiquette Is a Lost Art

  Look, if you’re going to rifle through someone’s insides, at least wipe your hands first.

  Grenda treats me like a drunk blackjack dealer shuffling greasy tools. And Sparks—bless her chaos soul—once stored a half-eaten sandwich in my lower drawer next to the torque wrench.

  Speaking of which…

  2. I Hate the Torque Wrench

  There’s something about him.

  He thinks he’s better than the other tools. Always smug, always pristine. Never used. Always whispering judgmental things like, “If I were in charge, the engine would’ve aligned perfectly.”

  Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

  Shut up, Reginald.

  Yes, his name is Reginald. No, I didn’t give it to him—he named himself. You don’t forget something like that when your drawer echoes with his faux-British superiority every time he shifts slightly against the ratchets.

  3. The Goat Is Probably a Demon

  Bleatford. Look, I respect the hustle. He runs the entire financial and legal infrastructure of this garage from behind a tiny desk with a quill and passive aggression sharp enough to slice adamantine.

  But I know he’s cursed. You can smell it on him. Ancient. Smoky. Hints of cinnamon and unresolved eldritch contracts.

  He’s made direct eye contact with me exactly five times. Every single time, I’ve felt my drawer mechanisms tighten like he knows how many cursed bolts are in me, and is simply waiting for the right time to activate them.

  Also, he eats paper when he thinks no one’s looking.

  4. Sparks Is a Disaster, But She Believes in Me

  She’s burned through three robes, five spellbooks, and a lunch break since I arrived. She once enchanted a muffin by accident and used it as a smoke grenade. And yet…

  She’s the only one who ever talks to me like I’m me.

  She’s named my sockets. She’s told me secrets. She once offered to tattoo my lid with runes that said “Tool of Destiny” in fire glyphs. (Grenda shut that down fast.)

  She believes I’m special.

  And that’s… dangerous. Because I think she might be right.

  5. I’m Changing

  It’s not just the glowing rune inside me, or the energy that pulses stronger every time I react to danger. It’s something deeper. I can feel pieces of myself waking up—tiny gears in the dark, clicking into motion.

  I dream now. That shouldn’t be possible.

  And sometimes, when everyone’s gone, I hear voices. Not the tools. Older voices.

  They don’t speak in words. More like… purpose. Like destiny on a slow boil.

  I don’t know what I’m becoming.

  But I know it’s more than just storage.

  6. Final Thought: I Miss Having Fingers

  Seriously.

  Do you know how hard it is to flip someone off without hands?

  I tried to eject a middle finger-shaped socket. Sparks thought I was offering her a spare. She called it “Buddy.”

  She put googly eyes on it.

  That’s all for now.

  Drawer closed. Lid locked. Thoughts… rattling.