Rodion's hum lined up like tidy numbers on a slate.
He added his own checks anyway. The corners were ordinary: a stray feather, a dent where a crate had sat, scuffs that made no pattern. He pressed lightly along a floor seam—no hidden glass ridge. He nosed at the lamp, sniffing for the sharp cinnamon of vowel oils. Only old fat and ash.
Mikhailis let a breath out that he had been holding without permission. "All right," he whispered. "Tell me everything."
The lenses answered him with a map. Lines rose like veins through dark soil. The terrace sat like a blunt lip. The lift throat cut down into the hill. Tents formed ribs. Trees stood like a wall, blacker than the sky. Beneath, a second map glowed dim, the house below arranging itself in neat humility—halls where breath knew how to go, vents like thin mouths, places with old names that didn't need saying.
