They say the gold grows down there in the dark, with a sound you can hear if you hold stiller than it. A crackling-creaking like ice underfoot, thin almost to falling through.

They say it bleeds dust when you cut it free with your knife, but only for one hissing breath. By the time you lift it to admire in the lamplight, the cut is as smooth and bright as a goldsmith could ever clean and polish. It doesn’t grow anymore once it’s severed from the whole, but it still makes those sounds.

They say more gold grows there in a month than a dozen men could haul to the surface, but it’s strange, you know. None of those who say so have ever been down in the dark themselves. None have gold as smooth as springmelt ice to show for it. They won’t say why, but I can guess.

It’s got to be hungry down there, growing in the dark, on cold and barren stone. And whether it’s sunflowers in the fields or gold in the dark or foolish miners marching down to cut it from the stone, everything that grows has to eat.