Floor 01
The troughs still hold wax. It has skinned over, dull as old honey, and the iron is cold until the match is close. Walk the aisle and the light only keeps the trough you are standing at. The rest of the hall is a rumour of brick.
A painted line on the floor used to mark a day’s dip. It is still there. It does not help.
Floor 02
Unheaded wood, thousands of them, waiting for a dip that did not come back. Brush a rack and it sounds like a brief rain. The grain takes the match-light in stripes. Deeper in, the wood is only a texture you remember.
Some of the splints have already been stolen by insects. They leave hollows that look like type, and are not.
Floor 03
Phosphorus lives in here. The walls took the colour of a used matchbox years ago and never gave it back. The drums are sealed. The bench still has a scrape where someone tested a head. Do not run in the vault. The air is enough work.
The strike strip on the door jamb still works if you drag a head slowly. That is the whole mechanic, written in grit.
Floor 04
Rain on the corrugated roof, puddles taking the one window that still has a match in it. The yard is the only place the sky is a fact. Wind spends the flame faster than walking does. If you must cross it, you cross it slow, cupping what you have.
The gate is chained from the inside. That is a later problem.