Eighteen Minutes Too Convenient

Well, Northbank Heritage Recovery managed to accuse me of trespass before I had even entered the reservoir. That is impressively stupid, or impressively prepared, and I am not yet generous enough to decide which.

I keep returning to those eighteen minutes. A complaint sitting on paper that early should feel like a trap sprung in front of me. Instead, it feels like someone opened a door before I touched the handle. I hate how badly that unsettles me. I can walk into cold water, mud, half-forgotten tunnels, and still make jokes while I do it. Give me paperwork prepared in advance and suddenly the jokes arrive late.

Ruth got her mother’s escapement back. I should let that be enough for once. I should be glad I mattered when the workshop was in danger, without needing to inspect the old claim plate again or decide what it means that Northbank placed itself directly across my route.

The plate is hidden now, padded away inside the camera case. Childish, perhaps. Mara can photograph my van and write whatever poison she likes, but she does not get that too. I scored one against her today, and I hate admitting how much pleasure that little notch in my private ledger gave me.

Rosa will see the preserved documents at the witnessed meeting. I want her to look at the timestamp and hear the whole ridiculous truth. More than that, I want the old plate to remain mine until I am brave enough to explain why I never declared the find.