Rain arrived before the sun had fully gone, a hard slanted curtain that made the signal box shiver on its iron legs. Elias Dray sat under the yellow lamp with his boots on the stove rail, a chipped mug of tea in his hand and the bitter smell of old wood, coal dust, and wet rope clinging to his sleeves. The junction spread below him like a machine assembled by a stubborn god: the upper line cutting through the cliff, the freight spur bending toward the sheds, the lower service cut disappearing into stone under a chain gate that nobody used unless something had gone wrong. On the shelf beside him sat a plate of fennel buns from the canteen downstairs, still warm enough to steam. Mrs Vale said the buns were too dry this week and blamed the foxes, which was absurd because no fox in the district had ever been accused of baking. Elias took one anyway, broke it in half, and found it better than duty and nearly as crumbly. The weather clicked against the windows. He checked the clock, the voltage, the lever locks, and the platform lamps in their slow row, each one glowing through the rain like a tired eye. A station like this never slept cleanly. It merely kept its one eye open and waited for the next thing to break. He knew every hinge, every signal arm, every board that groaned in a storm. That was the sort of knowledge that kept a man employed and alone in equal measure.