Three days on the ground. That was the bargain.
I woke before the bells and lay still in the dark under the stairs. The library held its deep quiet. Apples and stone dust lived in the grain of the back door like a memory that did not want to fade. I watched the ceiling and let my breath fall into a slow count. One. One again. I did not touch the handle that was not there.
The book turned a page by itself. Four small lines rose and rested.
Do not run.
Do not lie.
Do not cross.
Count when the bells are cold.
I washed. I brewed tea and watched steam find the light. I left the cup clean on the rack and walked out through the front. The city at first light looked like a promise kept halfway. Lantern strings hung dark. The lower streets smelled of fruit and bread and the faint iron of wet stone.
At the north crown the cords were up. Two clear signs hung from the rail with simple words. Crown closed for three days. Walk the ground. Count with us. Crews checked anchors and nets. The singer sat on a low stool near the inner walk with her hands folded on her knees. Lio stood at the bar with the calm of a person who will not be surprised by the day. Iven had a pencil behind his ear and a book in his hand and dust on his cuffs already. The steward came in a coat that did not try to look important.
People drifted to the line and stopped. Some read. Some did not. A boy lifted his mother's hand and stood on his toes to see over the cord. A man with a parcel looked at the lower walk and frowned as if the ground had offended him long ago and he had not forgiven it.
Lio looked at me. I nodded once. I spoke the sentence we had agreed to speak.
"The bridges will be quiet. The city will remember the ground. We will count together. We will open again."
The singer took a breath and set the low note under the morning. It ran along the rail like water under thin ice. The crowd felt it before they heard it. Shoulders loosened a little. Feet lifted and set without scraping. Someone laughed once and stopped and then smiled without shame.
The book warmed in my ribs. New words drew themselves in a neat hand.
When they ask for a reason, give them one true thing.
When they call it foolish, give them bread.
When they call it cruel, give them time.
A hawker in a green scarf pushed to the cord with a tray of sweet slices wrapped in clear paper. He had the face of a man who lived by small margins and quick steps.
"Open one gap," he said. "Let me pass and I will be smoke by the next bell."
"No," Lio said.
He spread his hands. "I will lose the morning."
"Walk the ground," I said. "Walk with us. We will count with you. You will not lose as much as you think."
He scowled. "Words," he said. "You tell people stories. I sell food."
The book warmed again. A short line appeared.
Give three for one.
I stepped to him. "Trade with me," I said. "Three slices now for the crew and the singer. I will stand beside you at the lower walk and ask people to walk your way first. You will make back what you think you will lose."
He hesitated. Iven held up a hand without speaking. The singer did not lift her eyes. Lio watched the hawker's mouth.
"Three," he said at last.
I gave him coins. He gave me the wrapped pieces. I carried them to the singer and to two workers at the net and to the old man who kept the anchor book. The hawker saw each gift land. He left the cord with a face that tried not to be hopeful and took a place by the lower walk with his tray high and his voice kind. He called the pace rather than the price. He sold out before the second bell and nodded once at me like a man who has decided not to be angry at the ground.
By full morning the lower walks were full in a rhythm that did not trouble the rails. Elders went first. The guides clapped a count where the path narrowed. One. One again. Children copied them with serious faces and then forgot they were serious and clapped for the joy of the sound.
A small crowd gathered at the cord. Some asked for the reason. I gave them the true thing the book had asked me to give.
"The crowns are tired," I said. "Three days is the price for years."
A woman with a bright scarf asked if we had proof. Lio pointed to the cut where the light held to a single quiet line. Iven described the seam as if it were a person learning to breathe slow again. The steward said nothing. She showed the palms of her hands to the rail and counted with us.
Near midday a man with a camera the size of a loaf tried to lift the cord for a friend who wanted a picture at the crown. Lio was there before the cord rose. She touched the line lightly with two fingers and looked at the man without malice. He put the camera down. The friend looked at the lower walk and shrugged, then framed her shot with the stone and the rail light and the people who walked where they should. The picture was good. The afternoon would tell that story.
We ate standing. A cart brought soup in clear cups and bread that cracked sweetly when you bent it. The singer took a bite between phrases and sang again. The note in the rail held. The light at the bar felt warmer by one small shade.
Midday bent to afternoon. The festival music from the lower plazas lost its hurry and found an even part. The pool crew came to the crown with a roll of tools and asked if the bridge wanted a sound to mark the day. The book woke to answer before I spoke.
Let the city pay one tone together.
We went down to the pool. The square knew we were coming and made a path the way a field of grain makes a path for wind. The tool woman laid out four wands and a soft bar. I took the bar and asked the singer to place her hand over mine. Lio stood at my left with the small boy from yesterday at her side. The steward came to the edge with the guides and the crews and the hawker and the baker and a knot of elders who had walked the long way on purpose because they liked the talk it gave them.
"My name is Row," I said to the pool. "We kept people on the ground and the ground held."
The singer pressed the bar to the glass and gave a low tone that lay under the day like a floor you can trust. I lifted and set and let the sound run to the far end. It met itself there and came back softer in a way that felt like thanks.
"What name will you keep," the tool woman asked.
"The city," I said.
She nodded. "Paid," she said. "The pool likes that name. It will say it when the bridges wake before dawn."
We climbed back to the deck. The crowd was smaller. The day had turned the color that makes shadows kind. Children ran the edge of the square with their voices low, as if they knew the rail was listening.
A thin shake of anger ran through the people at the cord near sunset. It came like heat does when stone gives back the day. Not a shout. A murmur. A tug at the rope. A look toward the steward that wanted her to be a different person.
The singer lifted her hands. She did not tell anyone to be quiet. She set a line of claps that did not scold and did not plead. One. One again. The guides answered with the same. Lio added a soft whistle that found the pitch of the rail. I brought the hawker to the front and asked him to hand out the last of his clear paper packets to the first five who chose the lower walk without being asked twice.
The murmur settled. Five packets left the tray. The people who held them did not gloat. They lifted the paper a little, as if to show the sweet to the rail and to the sea. Then they walked the ground as if it had always been theirs.
The book warmed.
Turn the count into a path.
Do not argue.
Feed the path.
By last light the crowns were quiet in the way a room is quiet after a long talk among friends. The lower walks still carried the pace of a city, but the weight on them had learned a new set of steps. The rail glowed without effort. The cut stayed a line.
"Day one held," Iven said. He wrote the words in his book and drew a small square next to them with a neat hand. He filled the square halfway and stopped.
"Why halfway," the steward asked.
"Because night can be foolish," he said. "We will fill the rest when the bells are cold again."
Lio smiled with her eyes. "I will listen," she said. "Go sleep, Row. Do not walk through any wood that softens."
"I will not," I said.
I walked home with the book easy against my ribs. The ground felt good under my shoes. I stopped at a fruit stall and bought two small pears that looked like they had been washed in a clear river. The seller asked if the bridges were sick. I told him the true thing. Three days is the price for years. He nodded and gave me a third pear without charging for it.
The library light made a warm square on the floor behind the desk. The kettle spoke its low talk. I drank and washed and set the cup where it belonged. The back door kept its winter.
The bell rang once.
It was the thin clear tone from the stair, not from the street. It came from the place behind the wood where the apple smell lives. It said my name in the way bells say names when they do not care if you hear them or not.
I listened once. Then I closed my ears. The sound went on a breath longer and left. The book turned one line in a hand so small it might have been written by the hush.
Good. Two more.
I lay on the couch under the stairs. I counted with the rail, which I could hear even here when I let the quiet be what it wanted to be. One. One again. Breath in. Breath out. I did not think about the name the shelf had taken. I did not think about the offer the keeper had held like a cup I did not want. I thought about the boy with the marble, and then I thought about nothing at all.
I woke at the cold of bells. I washed. I left by the front. The city opened its eyes the way a person opens eyes who has decided to be kind to the day. The lower walks were already waking to a soft rhythm. The rail lights on the crowns were pale and steady.
The book warmed in my palm as I crossed the square.
Do not run.
Do not lie.
Count with them.
Ask for a story when a child waits.
Day two was waiting. I would not cross. I would not answer. I would count. The ground would remember us, and we would remember it. The bridges would keep their song for later. We would earn it.