The invitation from Parliament did not arrive with ceremony.

It came folded into a plain envelope, delivered by courier late in the morning, its wax seal already cracked by the time it reached Phillip's hands. No crests. No formal summons. Just a neat line of script requesting his presence in London the following week, "for discussion."

Phillip read it once, then set it aside without comment.

Henry watched from the table. "You're not even going to pretend to be irritated?"

Phillip shrugged out of his coat and hung it by the door. "I already said I would go."

"That's not what I asked."

Phillip crossed the room and poured himself tea. "I'm not irritated. I'm curious."

Henry raised an eyebrow. "That's worse."

The day did not wait for them to settle the matter. The foundry yard was already active, the damp ground firming under boots as the morning chill gave way to pale sunlight. Smoke rose cleanly from the stacks again, no longer pressed down by rain. The smell of wet iron lingered, sharp and familiar.

Phillip stepped outside and let the noise settle around him. Hammers rang in measured rhythm. A cart creaked as it was unloaded. Somewhere, a foreman barked an instruction that was followed immediately without argument.

This, Phillip thought, was what it looked like when work resumed properly.

He walked the yard with Henry at a slower pace than usual, neither of them in a hurry to reach anything in particular.

"They'll want assurances," Henry said. "Limits. Oversight. Something they can point to and say they've contained you."

Phillip smiled faintly. "They've already done that."

Henry frowned. "How?"

"By discovering they can't," Phillip replied.

They reached the wire shed, where a new coil lay partially drawn, thicker than standard. The same proposal the young supervisor had mentioned days earlier. Phillip stopped to watch as two workers tested its flexibility, bending it carefully, measuring resistance.

One noticed Phillip and hesitated.

"Don't stop," Phillip said. "What's your assessment?"

The man glanced at his partner, then back. "Harder to work, sir. But it holds shape better once set."

"Where would you use it?" Phillip asked.

"Exposed ridgelines," the man replied. "Anywhere the wind hits hard."

Phillip nodded. "Document it. Trial it on one span only."

"Yes, sir."

Phillip moved on without further instruction.

Henry waited until they were out of earshot. "You're letting them decide more."

"They already are," Phillip said. "I'm just acknowledging it."

They left the yard late morning, Phillip choosing to walk into town again rather than remain among the noise. The sky was brighter today, though still winter-pale. Patches of mud had dried into cracked earth. The roads would be passable for days now, unless the weather turned again.

In town, the rhythm had picked up.

Deliveries arrived on schedule. Shops opened fully. Conversations returned to normal volume. Phillip passed the station and noticed a small queue forming inside—not of urgent messages, but of people waiting patiently to send routine correspondence. That, too, had become normal.

He did not enter. He did not need to.

Instead, he crossed the square and stopped near the notice board again. New postings had appeared overnight. A council announcement about road repairs. A revised market schedule. A handwritten note thanking the telegraph station for relaying word of a delayed shipment in time to avoid spoilage.

No one had signed it.

Phillip read it anyway.

He continued on, heading toward the eastern edge of town this time. The houses here were older, closer together. Smoke rose from chimneys in uneven bursts. Children played near doorways, watched by adults who pretended not to hover.

Halfway down the road, Phillip heard his name spoken hesitantly.

He turned to see a man approaching, hat in hand, boots muddy, expression uncertain.

"Phillip," the man said. "If you have a moment."

Phillip nodded. "I do."

The man introduced himself as a cooper by trade, recently contracted to supply barrels for a factory further north. "They've been asking for tighter schedules," he said. "Not unreasonable. But I've never worked like that before."

Phillip listened.

"I get word now," the man continued. "About delays. About demand. It helps. But it also means they expect answers faster. Decisions faster."

Phillip nodded slowly. "And that's difficult?"

The cooper considered. "Not difficult. Different."

Phillip smiled faintly. "That won't stop."

The man sighed. "I didn't think it would."

"What do you want?" Phillip asked.

The cooper hesitated. "I want to know whether I should change how I work. Or if this is just a phase."

Phillip met his gaze. "It's not a phase. But you don't need to change everything at once. Decide what speed matters. Let the rest follow."

The cooper nodded, relief visible. "Thank you."

Phillip watched him go, then continued on.

By the time he returned to the foundry, midday had passed. Henry was already back inside, sorting correspondence.

"You missed something," Henry said without looking up.

"Did it matter?" Phillip asked.

Henry smiled. "No."

They ate together again, this time with more conversation. Henry spoke of London gossip he had heard through unofficial channels. Phillip countered with observations from town. Neither took notes.

After the meal, Phillip surprised Henry by reaching for his coat again.

"I thought you'd had enough walking for one day," Henry said.

"I'm going to the station," Phillip replied.

Henry frowned. "Officially?"

"No."

At the station, the operator on duty looked up in mild surprise.

"You don't usually come twice," she said.

"I don't usually need to," Phillip replied. "How are things?"

She considered. "Steady. People are learning when to wait."

Phillip nodded. "That's important."

She hesitated. "There's something else."

Phillip waited.

"We've had fewer complaints," she said. "Not none. But fewer."

"And more questions," Phillip guessed.

She smiled. "Yes."

Phillip leaned lightly against the counter. "Answer what you can. Escalate what you can't. Don't apologize for either."

"Yes, sir."

He left her to her work and stepped back outside.

That evening, Henry brought out the ledger again.

"They'll expect a statement," Henry said. "When you go to London."

Phillip nodded. "I know."

"What will you say?"

Phillip considered the question longer than Henry expected. "I'll tell them the system is working because it's no longer mine."

Henry exhaled. "That will make them uncomfortable."

"It should," Phillip replied.

The next days passed in similar fashion.

Phillip remained present but not dominant. He attended meetings without leading them. He read reports without annotating them. He answered letters selectively, allowing delays to stand when they did not matter.

People noticed.

By midweek, a rumor had begun circulating quietly: that Phillip was stepping back.

Henry heard it first.

"They think you're preparing to leave," Henry said one evening, tone carefully neutral.

Phillip stirred his soup. "Am I?"

Henry studied him. "Are you?"

Phillip looked toward the window, where the wires were just visible against the darkening sky. "Not yet."

"But you're letting them think it."

"Yes."

Henry frowned. "Why?"

"Because systems need to survive the idea of absence," Phillip replied. "Even if the absence never comes."

Henry nodded slowly. "You're testing them."

"No," Phillip said. "I'm testing myself."

The week ended without incident.

On the morning Phillip was to leave for London, the foundry yard was already awake when he stepped outside. Workers paused briefly as he passed, offering nods, quiet greetings. No speeches. No questions.

Henry waited by the gate with a small bag.

"Train's on time," Henry said. "Imagine that."

Phillip smiled faintly. "It won't last."

They walked together toward the station, the poles lining the road as always. Phillip stopped once, briefly, to check an insulator that had caught his eye. It was fine. He moved on without comment.

At the platform, steam curled into the air as the train prepared to depart. The stationmaster approached, hat tipped respectfully.

"Safe journey," he said.

"Thank you," Phillip replied.

Henry lingered a moment longer. "You don't need to bring back permission," he said quietly.

Phillip met his gaze. "I know."

As the train pulled away, Phillip watched the town recede, the foundry smoke thinning into distance, the wires stretching alongside the tracks before diverging.

London awaited.

Not as a battlefield, Phillip thought, but as a room full of people who wanted certainty where none existed.

He settled into his seat and allowed the motion of the train to carry him.

For the first time in years, he did not feel the need to anticipate every question before it was asked.

The system would continue while he was gone.

That, more than any argument he might make in Parliament, was the real proof of what had been built.

Phillip looked out the window as the countryside slid past, poles flashing by in steady intervals.

Work would resume when he returned.

But it no longer depended on him being there to begin.

Phillip closed his eyes briefly as the train gathered speed, the rhythm of wheels settling into something even and reliable. Outside, the wire kept pace for a time, then fell behind, continuing its work without him. He let that thought rest where it was, neither pride nor doubt attached to it. When he opened his eyes again, London was still hours away, and for once, the distance felt appropriate rather than urgent.

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