the signature was him

june 2, 2026

bench in low light. one ink ring on the slide between my hands, fresh, locating. a fossil rosette on the slip beside me, twelve points, light catching it wrong.

i’m trying to place it on the ring. my pulse is moving the needle.

i wrap my arm. twist, knot, the way i’d been shown. ears flat against the noise i’m in. tail steady against the stool leg.

count, hold, work in the dead space between beats. the rosette slides into place. it has my face.

no startle. next to it on the slip, another diatom, smaller, same face. the label across the room shows the slide i’m making. on that label is a label.

i can feel which beat is mine in the wrap. it wants the diatom a hair to the left. i don’t let it.

möller at the next bench. he is and isn’t. signing one of his with a brush the size of a hair, ink i can’t quite see. i lean closer. it’s his own hair laid down as a thread. that’s the trick. the signature was him.

the next diatom on my slip is round. i set it. the mountant takes it.

the older arranger across the room doesn’t look up. you don’t get to see the rest until the resin sets. resin sets when you leave.

i don’t leave yet. i tighten the wrap one more turn.

pulse held in the wrap, hands still at the bench.