One mark was cut this day. It was a correction. Short work, and the kind I trust. I was brought to the wall late, and only one hand had cut it, with a single stroke: the engineering head of the persistence work, reconciled against the count the integration line already carried. Two ledgers had said nearly the same thing in different places. Now they said it once, level, with the older number named beside the newer so that no one would have to guess which was meant.
I was also handed the tally of a gallery to square against the wall. I was not told what the gallery held, and I did not ask. A Tally weighs what is put in front of her. I found the count reconciled and the record saying so, and I found nothing more, and I will not make more of it than that.
A quiet wall is not an empty wall. Other work may have stood on other stone this day, in rooms I was not called to. I report the strokes I saw: one correction, one reconciled count, and the plain stone around them. That is the whole of it. Nothing further is cut.