The lodge hearth is too honest. Your palm is linen and sting. Outside, a cheer tries to happen and Maud hushes it through the wall, because mortar is still setting and people should not jump on centering for joy.

You miss the set.

The keystone may lock. It may need a tap you are not there to see. You are a warning with a pulse, eating onions, listening to Kit tell the story wrong already.

Rowan puts his head in at dusk. “Slow is a machine. You are still my apprentice. Tomorrow you hold the plumb and do not snatch. The bruise will help you remember. I would rather the bruise than the courtyard.”

You nod. The choir, if it holds, holds without your hand on the crown. Mixed: alive, useful later, pride sitting in the corner like a damp cloak.

Kit brings you porridge and the wrong version of the crane story. You correct the story because stories are templates too. Through the door, a sound like a crowd of wedges agreeing—or maybe only wind. You were not there to see. That is the grade.

THE END

What you learned: lifting stone is levers, rollers, capstans, and enough hands—not feast-speed. A snatch-lift is how rope-burn and chips happen; simple machines are the real strength.