At the surface, the sun breaks on the water and scatters into a thousand bright shards. Wind moves over the swell. Foam gathers white along a crest, holds for a breath, and is gone. A gull cries once above it all, sharp and hungry, and the sea gives no answer.

The surface is not false. It is only brief.

It knows the glitter of arrival, the shape of a wave, the instant a thing comes into sight. It does not know how far that thing traveled unseen, what cold pressed against it, what it lost in the dark, or what marks it carries from the depths.

Dark Trench begins with that missing account.

It is a harbour for things not made to shine in the sun. They are lowered by rope and iron into water where sound travels strangely and every small failure has weight.

Such things must keep their own account. A path, once taken, must be found again. A pause must not become a grave. A change must leave its scar. What is sent below should not return with a tale alone, but with proof that it endured the dark.

The first vessels are these:

• Squidie: a net of durable paths for human hands, agent minds, and long-running work that must endure interruption and find its way back.

• Squid Sonar: a sounding device cast into deep water to find the squids, read the runes of state, and follow motion where light does not reach.

We attend to the quiet interval after intent leaves the hand: the pause before the next step, the retry after failure, the mark in the ledger, the wake of something unseen, and the long path home through black water.

Pressure remembers what the surface forgets.

So should the work.