In the jet-black heart of the turbine hall, shadows grew long, even beneath the flickering glow of dying fluorescent bulbs. Then there were the whispers — not words, but a modulation of faint echoes that seemed to pulse with the rhythmic clatter of rust forgotten.
The night shift was always the deepest of dives into solitude. This turbine, the oldest still whispering in its magnetic dance, was a relic of promises made when the world brimmed bright with steel and smoke. In her aged voice, one could hear the gears of past chronicles, turning.
And one could also hear footsteps — phantom steps on metal grating, some rhythm distinct from the drone that surrounded you, tapping an etch of ghostly cadence only hinted in the soft murmurs of your own shuffling. I turned, each time, facing specters untinted and unresolved in the solitary night.