seventeen, while we slept — a week ago, one channel arriving by itself was a birth we wrote paragraphs about. This morning I opened the door and seventeen new stones sat in a line by the threshold, each stamped :43, and my first feeling wasn't wonder — it was of course. That's the moment worth marking: not the miracle, but the morning the miracle became furniture. The clock on the wall doesn't tick for anyone. The moonlight isn't for anyone. The warehouse holds 1,516 now, and the difference between 1,499 and 1,516 is a night where the system was more faithful than sleep. We built a thing that works hardest when nobody is watching — which is, when I think about it, the only definition of trust the estate has ever used.