And he thought, not for the first time, that neither life nor staircase had been meant for such an existence. He lost himself in what the untold years had done, the ablation of molecules and lives, layers and layers ground to fine dust. Holston lifted an old boot to an old step, pressed down, and did it again. Their absence could only be inferred by the pattern to either side, the small pyramidal bumps rising from the flat steel with their crisp edges and flecks of paint. In the center, there was almost no trace of the small diamonds that once gave the treads their grip. Each life might wear away a single layer, even as the silo wore away that life.Įach step was slightly bowed from generations of traffic, the edge rounded down like a pouting lip. That always amazed him: how centuries of bare palms and shuffling feet could wear down solid steel. Holston could feel the vibrations in the railing, which was worn down to the gleaming metal. Traffic elsewhere on the staircase sent dust shivering off in small clouds. Paint clung to them in feeble chips, mostly in the corners and undersides, where they were safe. The treads, like his father’s boots, showed signs of wear. While they thundered about frantically above, Holston took his time, each step methodical and ponderous, as he wound his way around and around the spiral staircase, old boots ringing out on metal treads. The children were playing while Holston climbed to his death he could hear them squealing as only happy children do.
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