The Grey Lattice

The first sound Aya heard was old metal singing. It was not a melody anyone alive had taught her; it was the complaint of a city remembering how it had been built. Wind scoured the broken glass of the tower across the channel, and the lattice of the fog-harvest on her roof chimed in sympathetic clicks as it flexed. She kept her palm on the cold flange until the shudder ran through her wrist and settled. The skin there still smelled like algae and machine oil.

Greyhaven rose from the drowned plain like a stranded spine—half towers, half trestles—each ledge a garden or a market or a lean-to. The city had a heartbeat now of pumps and siphons and ragged laughter. Aya could read those noises as a map, because she had to. She had been twenty-three three weeks ago and twenty-three two days ago; time for measurement and mending folded strangely in a place that learned to wring water from the fog.

She opened her fist and found the echo-lens—a small brass disc, pitted and warm from the night—wrapped in a scrap of rubber. It hummed faintly like a trapped insect. Aya had found it in a museum's display case when scavenging in the old quarter; it had felt like a private thing then, private and curious, not yet a tool that people would trade whole jars of brine for. She clipped it on the strap of her bag and climbed down a ladder that smelled of rain that had never fallen here.

On the lane below, Marek was setting out battered kettles and a stack of records he hoped someone still wanted. He looked up at her and tilted his head the way he always did when he wanted to ask a question he was not sure he wanted answered.

"The lattice held through the night?" he asked. His voice was sandpaper and beehive wax.

"Mostly," Aya said. She flexed the fingers that would later become sore with work. "We lost half the condensers at Block C. Salt pushed under the seals. I stirred the floats, tightened the clamp, but it's losing pressure."

Marek spat. A boy she used to teach to patch boots shuffled past with a tray of tea—a watery ration, sweetened with sugar scraped from a cache of old science sweeteners. People moved like this: small trades and careful barter, a thousand tiny restorations keeping the place stitched together.

She moved among them like a technician among living instruments. Her hands knew the valves and practices of fog-harvesters: how a diaphragm could be coaxed back to life with a folded strip of copper; how a condenser coil might be teased free from barnacles of rust with the right sequence of taps. Her work was quieter than the market's barking and cheaper than the lies told at the Syndicate’s stands; it kept people alive without earning her praise.

When she reached the public cistern, the stones at its rim were slick with a dew that had been coaxed into being overnight. Aya knelt and ran her fingers through the water. It tasted the way memory does—not of sweetness but of risk and bargain. Above the cistern, banners stitched from faded sails bent in the breeze. A child at the edge of the market held a strip of mirror like a talisman, watching how the light skimmed the water surface. No one thought of tomorrow as anything but a ledger you paid into with labor. Still, in the ledger of Greyhaven, Aya Finch's name was written where it belonged: in the margin next to pumps and makeshift rules, a person who fixed things because nobody else remembered how.