The night after our failed test flight, Leo was unusually quiet. We sat in the garage surrounded by half-burnt blueprints, melted metal scraps, and the haunting sound of silence from a rocket that had almost launched itself through our neighbor's greenhouse.
I poked the engine shell with a broom handle, half-expecting it to growl at me. "I still don't get it," I said. "We didn't even install a fuel system. That thing ran itself."
Leo didn't answer. He was staring at the engine core, like it had whispered a dark secret into his ear. "It's not supposed to work. But it did. On its own."
I slowly turned to him. "Leo. Please tell me you didn't use the forbidden PDF from that sketchy website again."
"No. Well... maybe? But only as a reference!" he blurted.
I threw a wrench at the floor. "Leo! That blueprint came with a disclaimer that said 'May bend reality. Use only if you want to meet interdimensional tax agents!'"
He stood up