The warehouse smelled of rust and rain.
Michael pushed the door open with a grunt, metal scraping against the concrete. The cavernous space stretched into shadow, filled with dust, broken windows, and the flutter of startled pigeons. Shafts of gray light slanted across the floor, painting shapes like faded memories.
To anyone else, it was a ruin. To Michael, it was a cathedral.
He walked forward, the ticking of the pocket watch in his coat pocket keeping time with his steps. Tick. Tick. Tick.
Behind him, a voice rasped: "You sure this isn't the place dreams come to die?"
Michael turned. Arthur Caldwell stood in the doorway, shoulders hunched against the drizzle, a paper cup of coffee in his hand. His white hair was damp, his glasses fogged. But his eyes—those stern, thoughtful eyes—were clear.
Michael gave a faint smile. "It's the place dreams begin."
Arthur snorted, stepping inside. His shoes crunched against grit. "Kid, this place is more holes than walls. You planning to patch it with equations?"
Michael's smile widened. "Maybe."
---
The Bones of Helios
Arthur followed as Michael traced the perimeter. "Here," Michael said, pointing at the center of the room. "Reactor core. It'll hum like a heartbeat." He moved to the far wall. "Computers. Data servers. Whiteboards for overflow."
Arthur squinted at the steel, flaking with rust. "Or pigeons, depending on which comes first."
Michael ignored the jab. His eyes gleamed as he spread his hands. "Can't you see it, Arthur? A place where knowledge becomes power. Not for corporations, not for governments—for people. For humanity."
Arthur sipped his coffee. "I see a kid burning himself alive. Again."
Michael stopped, turning sharply. "This isn't just obsession. This is salvation."
Arthur studied him in silence for a moment. Then he sighed and set the coffee cup on a table. "You're your father's son, you know that? Always reaching, never looking down to see the ground cracking beneath your feet."
The words hit Michael like a stone to the chest. His father—gone in a crash years ago, just like his mother. The wound never healed. He swallowed hard.
Arthur softened, laying a hand on his shoulder. "Doesn't mean I'm not proud. Just means I know how high the fall can be."
---
First Night's Work
Michael unpacked his satchel—stacks of notebooks, a battered laptop, pens worn to stubs. Arthur watched him spread them with meticulous care, each object placed as though sacred.
"Still writing like the world depends on it?" Arthur asked.
"It does," Michael muttered, flipping open a notebook. Equations poured onto the page, his hand moving faster than thought. He paused only when his wrist cramped.
Arthur leaned against a beam, arms crossed. "Doctors said six months, didn't they?"
Michael froze. The silence stretched.
Arthur's voice softened. "You don't have to outrun death, Michael. You just have to live before it catches you."
Michael pressed the pen harder against the paper. "No. I'm going to change the world before it catches me."
Arthur shook his head, half in exasperation, half in admiration. "You stubborn bastard."
---
The Chalk Cathedral
Days passed. The warehouse transformed. Michael patched windows with tarps, wired lamps to scavenged generators. He painted equations directly onto the walls in white chalk, covering the steel in symbols. Circles spread across the floor like constellations.
Arthur visited often, bringing food, tools, the occasional lecture. He'd stand in the middle of the chalk diagrams, turning slowly, his face a mix of awe and fear.
"You're building a cathedral," he said once, voice low. "But cathedrals take lifetimes. You don't have a lifetime."
Michael met his gaze. "Then I'll build it faster."
Arthur's jaw tightened. He wanted to argue. Instead, he muttered, "Just don't forget, cathedrals also need believers."
Those words lingered. Believers. Michael realized Arthur was right—he couldn't build Helios alone. He would need others. People who could see the fire without being blinded.
---
One night, Michael stood alone in the warehouse, chalk dust clinging to his fingers. Equations sprawled across the walls, endless as stars. The watch ticked on the table, steady as fate.
Arthur's words echoed: Believers.
Michael whispered to the empty space, to Arthur's absent presence, to the ticking watch:
"Helios will rise. Even if I fall with it."
The words hung in the air like a vow.