Rain on the cobbles in Castlefield and pattern going up on the viaduct brickwork. Orange and green cubes under a hundred and fifty years of soot, the canal flat and dark behind, the panels doubling in the puddles.
Of all the sites so far this one feels most like a conversation with the city: Victorian engineering, hand printed paper, nobody around but geese.
A small plaque went up beside it. Quietly official. Let people wonder.
Part of The Palace Is a Refuge.