Eng — Martin Engstrom in full — had been the clever one who could coax a stalled engine to life with nothing but a pair of gloves and a prayer. He kept the marshalling yard’s oldest locomotives breathing, and he kept his mouth shut about where they took the silent cargo. One autumn night, after the harvest moon shaved the roofs with silver, Eng disappeared. His bench was empty, his toolbox untouched; the wrench lay in a bed of sawdust like a question. In its place someone left a folded note with three words: “Dass 187 exclusive.”
Rumors are a kind of currency; they change hands and gain weight. Some claimed Dass 187 was a ship that never docked, a phantom manifesting only to those brave or foolish enough to read the red-circled page. Others swore it was a man who rented bodies, slipping through people’s lives like oil. A few, more practical, whispered that it was a network—engines, smugglers, magistrates—tight as chain links, and that the “exclusive” was the price of admission. dass 187 eng exclusive
Lio fit the key and turned. The lock sighed and gave way as if relieved to do so. Inside was an engine room breathed by coal and salt, a machine that seemed older than the city with gauges like watchful eyes. A narrow staircase curled down, and at its base sat a bench — the same bench Eng had used, as if time had looped its memory. On the bench lay a journal bound in faded canvas, and inside the first page, in a hand Lio recognized from the chalkboard at his school, was a name: Martin Engstrom. Under it, a single entry: “Dass 187 — exclusive. Trade is privacy; passage is choice.” Eng — Martin Engstrom in full — had
At the bottom of the journal Lio found another note, smaller and nearly rubbed away: “If you find this, remember choice. Return what was sold.” Under the note, in Eng’s cramped hand, a list of names salted with small marks and numbers. Some names were crossed out with dates; others were left open like questions. His bench was empty, his toolbox untouched; the