The first full week of the year began with rain.

Not the freezing kind that turned roads into hazards or snapped branches under weight, but a steady, soaking rain that worked its way into wool and earth alike. Phillip noticed it before he stepped outside, listening to the sound against the roof as he buttoned his coat. It was persistent without being violent, the kind that changed plans quietly rather than breaking them.

He took that as a fair description of the days ahead.

Henry was already awake, seated at the table with papers spread out this time, though they were arranged neatly rather than piled. A kettle hissed softly on the stove.

"Morning," Henry said.

Phillip nodded. "How bad?"

Henry glanced toward the window. "Roads will be mud by noon. Lines should hold. Resin's still fresh on the western spans."

Phillip poured tea. "And people?"

Henry smiled slightly. "People will complain."

"Then nothing has changed," Phillip said.

They ate without rush. Outside, the rain softened the yard, blurring the outlines of carts and sheds. Workers arrived more slowly, cloaks drawn tight, boots already darkened by water. No one hurried them.

Phillip stepped out shortly after breakfast, letting the rain soak into his coat. The foundry yard smelled different in wet weather—iron, damp wood, smoke that clung low instead of rising cleanly. He walked the perimeter first, as he often did, checking nothing in particular.

Near the wire shed, two men struggled with a crate that had sunk slightly into the mud. Phillip stopped and watched as they repositioned planks beneath it, arguing quietly about leverage.

"You don't need to lift it," one said. "Just shift the weight."

"That's what I'm trying to do," the other replied.

Phillip waited until the crate was secure again before speaking. "Next time, lay the planks first."

Both men looked up, startled.

"Yes, sir," one said, then added, "Phillip."

Phillip nodded and continued on.

The rain thinned as he reached the station. Inside, the air was warm, heavy with oil and ink. The operator on duty looked up, rainwater dripping from Phillip's hat onto the floorboards.

"Morning," she said.

"Anything changed?" Phillip asked.

She shook her head. "Traffic's heavier than yesterday, but evenly spaced. Mostly trade inquiries. A few municipal updates."

Phillip listened for a moment. The sounder's rhythm was slightly quicker than usual, but controlled. He nodded once. "Good."

He left without further comment and headed into town.

Rain changed the town's mood. Conversations moved indoors. Doors stayed closed longer. People lingered under awnings, speaking more softly, as if volume might invite worse weather. Phillip passed a group of men sheltering outside the grocer's, discussing whether the river would rise again.

"It always does," one said.

"Not like last time," another replied. "We got word early enough to move stock."

Phillip kept walking.

At the edge of the square, he paused as a cart struggled through a deepening rut. The driver cursed under his breath, then laughed when the horse slipped slightly but recovered.

"You'll have that filled by spring," Phillip said.

The driver looked up. "Aye. Or the council will promise to."

Phillip smiled faintly and moved on.

He followed the western road again, though this time he did not go as far. The rain intensified briefly, then settled back into a steady pattern. Water ran along the ditches, carrying leaves and grit.

Halfway to the bridge, he encountered a familiar figure: the alderman from the nearby town, coat soaked through, hat pulled low.

"You walk in this?" the man asked, surprised.

Phillip shrugged. "The rain doesn't mind."

The alderman laughed. "I suppose it doesn't."

They walked together for a short stretch.

"I wanted to thank you," the alderman said after a moment.

"For what?"

"For not answering my letter yet," the man replied.

Phillip glanced at him. "That's unusual gratitude."

"It gave us time," the alderman said. "We argued. Properly. About what we actually wanted, not just what we thought we should ask for."

Phillip nodded. "And?"

"We decided to start smaller," the alderman said. "One spur. One operator. See how it changes things before we change ourselves."

Phillip smiled. "That's the correct order."

They parted ways soon after, the alderman turning back toward town, Phillip continuing a short distance further before turning around himself.

By the time he returned to the foundry, the rain had soaked everything thoroughly. Mud clung to boots. The yard was a patchwork of puddles. Work continued anyway, adjusted rather than halted. Some tasks moved indoors. Others slowed.

Phillip found Henry in the drafting room, coat hung by the door, sleeves rolled.

"You've been avoiding this place," Henry said.

Phillip removed his wet coat. "I'm allowing it to exist without me."

Henry gestured toward a stack of papers. "They're allowing you to exist without them, too."

Phillip glanced at the papers but did not pick them up. "Anything urgent?"

"No," Henry said. "Which is why they're still there."

Phillip nodded.

They spent the late morning together without speaking much. Henry reviewed correspondence. Phillip stared out the window at the rain, occasionally shifting his weight. The sounder clicked steadily, indifferent to weather.

Near noon, a knock came at the door.

An apprentice stood there, hat in hand, rain dripping from the brim. "Sir—Phillip. The northern supervisor sent a message. He wants to know whether to delay installation until the ground firms up."

Phillip considered. "What does the supervisor think?"

The apprentice hesitated. "He thinks they can proceed if they reinforce the bases. It'll cost more timber."

Phillip nodded. "Then let him proceed. Have him log the additional cost."

The apprentice blinked. "That's it?"

"That's it," Phillip said.

The apprentice nodded and left, expression somewhere between relief and confusion.

Henry watched him go. "You used to answer those yourself."

Phillip shrugged. "Now he will."

They ate midday meal later than usual, the rain still tapping steadily at the windows. Henry spoke about Parliament again, about expectations and rumors. Phillip listened without reacting.

"I think they're more unsettled by your silence than they ever were by your arguments," Henry said.

"Good," Phillip replied.

The afternoon passed slowly. The rain eased near dusk, leaving the world washed and dull. Phillip took another walk, shorter this time, circling the foundry rather than leaving it. He stopped at the fence line and watched water drain away.

A group of workers nearby debated whether to continue a task or leave it for the next day.

"We could finish it," one said.

"And start the year tired?" another replied.

Phillip did not intervene. After a moment, they chose to secure what they had done and leave the rest.

That decision pleased him more than he expected.

That evening, a visitor arrived unannounced.

Phillip recognized him immediately: a clerk from Whitehall, younger than most, boots still too clean for the weather.

"You found us," Phillip said.

"Yes, sir," the clerk replied. "I was told you preferred not to be summoned unless necessary."

"And yet here you are," Phillip said mildly.

The clerk swallowed. "Parliament would like to see you next week. Informally."

Henry stepped closer. "Informally?"

The clerk nodded. "A small dinner. Discussion only."

Phillip considered the man for a long moment. "Tell them I'll come. But not to discuss expansion."

The clerk looked uncertain. "They may insist."

Phillip met his gaze. "Then tell them I won't."

The clerk nodded, relief flickering across his face. "Yes, sir."

After he left, Henry sighed. "That won't go over well."

Phillip removed his boots. "It doesn't need to."

They ate supper quietly. The rain returned briefly, lighter this time, then faded away entirely. By the time night settled, the ground outside reflected lantern light in broken patches.

Phillip sat in the drafting room again, though this time he unrolled one map. Not the full network. Just the local area. He studied it without marking anything, tracing roads and lines with his eyes.

Henry watched him from across the room. "You're not planning."

"I'm remembering," Phillip said.

"Of what?"

"Of when this was empty," Phillip replied.

Henry nodded slowly.

Late that night, the sounder clicked differently. Not urgent, but distinct enough to draw Phillip's attention. He crossed the room and checked the message.

A small factory south of Birmingham reported a machinery failure. No injuries. They requested advice on rerouting shipments until repairs were complete.

Phillip read it once, then passed it to Henry. "Route through Leeds. Temporary. Tell them to coordinate with rail."

Henry nodded and sent the response.

Phillip returned to his chair. He did not linger over the decision. He did not doubt it.

That mattered.

The next morning arrived clearer. The rain had washed the air clean, leaving the sky pale and open. Phillip woke before dawn again, but this time he did not lie still. He rose and dressed with purpose that felt measured rather than compelled.

Outside, the yard steamed faintly as moisture evaporated. Workers arrived on time, boots cleaner than the day before. Someone laughed loudly near the gate.

Phillip walked among them, exchanging brief words, nods, nothing more.

At the station, the operator greeted him with a familiar smile. "Traffic's already picking up."

Phillip nodded. "It will."

He stepped back outside and looked down the road, where the poles stretched into the distance, wet but standing firm.

The year had begun.

Not with declarations or demands, but with rain, routine, and people making small decisions without waiting to be told.

Phillip turned back toward the foundry, coat collar turned up against the cold.

Work continued.

And this time, it felt sustainable.

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