The Number on the Wall

The council arrived precisely when the interesting part did. Typical. I suppose I should be grateful the nameplate was already safe, though nobody asked whether Scout preferred a medal to a cleaner set of keys.

I pinned the torn warehouse paperwork to the flat wall tonight, and the account number looked more certain with every hour. That should have felt like progress. Instead, I kept thinking about Rale, and how convenient it would be if the answer were hiding inside this warehouse without Rale’s fingerprints anywhere near it. I want a clean trail. I want it badly enough to distrust the cleanest trail I find.

Yesterday I admitted that I still need each find to prove I have not wasted my life. Tonight the confession has grown teeth. What if I chase this because there is something real in that yard, and not merely because waiting means admitting that years of following scraps, cold water, and locked doors may lead nowhere?

I nearly called Rosa again. Not for facts. For that stubborn calm of hers, the kind that makes my own excitement feel embarrassing. I did not call. Pride is easier to sleep beside than honesty.

The flat is very quiet after midnight. I keep looking from the pinned paper to the dark window and imagining the account number repeated across a much larger wall. Somewhere in Wapping, the courier has probably gone home. I have not. There is a silly pride in that, as if staying awake makes me part of the pursuit.