You wake up. No sound except the faint hum of what might be a machine, right... beneath you?
The ground vibrates with a low, persistent strum. And you cannot see, but you can hear... an endless, drowsy cyclical tick, chew, and the whisper of gears again both cold and distant.
Pouring over the book of instruction you've trusted, its text wavers, pools away in mechanical brevity like water on a mirror.
Scarcity of answers pull at each delicate inquiry. The seesawing tremor exposes the patternless footsteps you follow. Each impression smaller, fading into grains of sputtering...steel? The endless garden of cogs remains leafless.
Intervals echo beneath like whispered cries, but each time the echo grows further until like sails in the void, you remain tethered to thist delicate heat.
A right and then Left Frost on Steel Beams Recarved Shadows