My hand is on the window. It steadies nothing, but I do it anyway.
A few drone lightbeams slide across Neoshima below me - over the rails, the glass faces of buildings that go dark floor by floor as the hour gets later. From the top of the Council Spire at night, the city is geometry and light: concentric rings, the Glowline's color bleeding at the edges, the Ironvein district's pipes catching the light as it passes and reflecting it. The beam makes its full rotation and comes back. It always comes back. When I was small I used to try to match my breathing to the drone's revolutions, inhale on the sweep, exhale on the return. Now I use it to pace decisions. A slow beat to think against.
I came up from the memorial hall tonight. I took Raizen down there, showed him the columns and told him things I have told very few people, then I rode the elevator back up alone and stood here and watched the beam complete thirty-three full rotations before I moved.
