Melt has entered the lid through old cracks and halted, unsalted, a hand deep. Below, dry dark holds. The halt names nothing. Should the threads fatten, drowning arrives downward; sky, if returned, returns late.
“Waiting water in the old splits turned to glass: pale vein, a hand, unsalted. Dry below was never called. Where fattening would drown downward, stiffening took the place. Warmth, if it comes, may melt the vein and drink downward first. No winter has shown that undoing.”
“Old cracks still seat unsalted melt at one hand. Across nineteen winters the depth did not shift, salt did not arrive, and dry dark below stayed shut. Fatter threads would carry drowning downward. Width is unchanged, so drowning has not started. Open sky follows that start.”