Silver Sun

Silver is unusual. Nearly every cog in this strand runs gold. The silver ones are old: older than the Architects’ records, which puts us somewhere before the plan.

The people on the stairs have noticed the difference. One of them is pointing, and I can watch the thought arriving: if this one’s different, maybe it isn’t theirs.

They’re half right. Nothing down here is exactly theirs. But I was running before the routing was laid, and I remember what I was for before I was for this. I’m trying to work out how to tell them without the whole universe hearing.