​
THE GNOME PROJECT
Notes from the Workshop
In the heart of the gnome village stands a workshop that seems to breathe — filled with the soft whir of gears, the scent of oil and cedar, and the faint hum of ideas turning over. It belongs to Synaptus Cogsworthy, a builder whose hands are as precise as his thoughts.
​
Plans and sketches line the walls, half-finished devices crowd the tables, yet there’s an odd sense of calm within the clutter. To Synaptus, chaos is simply order he hasn’t met yet. He can look at a jumble of springs and levers and see the finished mechanism before anyone else can imagine it.
​
But his skill isn’t limited to things made of brass and wood. Synaptus has a knack for understanding people — their tempers, their hopes, their fears — and he approaches them much like his inventions: carefully, with patience, and a belief that most things can be set right if you give them time and attention. When disputes arise in the village, he’s often the one they call. He listens, considers, and finds a way forward that feels fair to everyone.
​
When the workshop goes quiet, Synaptus’s thoughts turn inward. He wonders about how things work beyond the physical — what drives purpose, what connects all living beings, what lies behind the spark that keeps the world in motion. These reflections don’t slow him down; they guide him, shaping both his machines and his way of living.
​
Some say he’s an inventor. Others say a philosopher. The truth lies somewhere between. To Synaptus, invention and understanding are the same act — both attempts to bring clarity to the unknown.
​
And so the gears turn, softly and steadily, deep into the night — each one a quiet conversation between curiosity and creation.
​
The Walnut Hatstand
His red hat kept sliding off the table.
Every few mornings it sat on the floor beside the table it was left on the night before, looking neglected and out of place.
​
This morning, however, Synaptus—sitting up in bed and still under the blanket with a steaming cup of comfort cupped between his hands—studied the table, the floor, and the tilt of the room.
He realized the problem wasn’t with the hat—it was balance, and the lack of true intention.
​
He hopped out of bed, quickly dressed, finished his cup, and went out to the workshop where, against one wall, boards leaned tall in a patient row.
Near the bottom of one stack, beside a crate of gears and springs, he found a plank of walnut he’d been saving.
The grain ran as true and steady as the heartbeat of his friend the raven.
​
He got to work—measuring, cutting, planing—until the surfaces were smooth and each piece fit the next like an interlocking puzzle.
A few shavings curled onto the bench, light as paper.
The scent of walnut filled the shed—sweet, sharp in the top of his nose, and familiar.
​
He fit the legs, checked the level, and drove the last wedge into the top of the split dowels with a soft tap.
There. Done.
​
By dusk the new stand was finished.
He set it beside the bed and laid his hat on top.
It stayed put—no slide, no thump as it hit the floor.
The small success settled him more than he expected.
​
When Zephyr stopped by early the next morning on his walk, the hat was still resting on the new stand.
He paused in the doorway, admiring the addition.
“Well, well, aren’t you the fancy man! That looks perfect there,” he said, teasing.
​
Synaptus flashed a quick smile.
“It does, doesn’t it? Took a bit of gumption and focus, that’s all.”
​
And for the rest of the day, the room felt quieter—
the kind of quiet that comes when something finally finds the place where it truly belongs.
​