Phillip returned to Shropshire before dawn.
The carriage ride from the crash site had been silent; even Henry barely spoke. The wheels clattered over the uneven road, but Phillip barely heard them. His thoughts stayed fixed on the wreckage—twisted metal, crushed timber, the quiet rows of linen sheets. No design flaw. No broken axle. No cracked wheel. Nothing mechanical betrayed him.
It was the oldest enemy of all: distance.
When the carriage finally stopped outside the main workshop at Shropshire Foundry, the lamps were still lit inside. Apprentices were sorting plates for the next shipment to Portsmouth. The air smelled of coal dust, hot iron, and morning frost. Henry climbed down after Phillip, rubbing his eyes, but Phillip didn't wait for him. He walked straight toward the drafting room.
Inside, the familiar space greeted him—long tables, shelves of rolled blueprints, chalkboards filled with half-finished calculations. Normally, he found comfort here. Not tonight.
