Vertical cluster of cogs and gears

The snow came over the Koller Pass on Tuesday and the funicular stopped with the car halfway up the gully. I have the drive housing open on the bench in the shed where the stove still draws, and every tooth on the big wheel is sound except the one that sheared last March. I have been trying to replace it with a strip of brass from your father's old clock, filing it down with the patience of a man who has nothing else to do.

The train is a stack of wheels, each one smaller than the last, meshing down the frame like beads on a wire. Frau Hollenweger says the engineers cut them that way so the load would step down the mountain gently. I think they did it because they liked to watch the sizes shrink. The top wheel is thick as a dinner plate and the bottom one would sit on a thumbnail. Between them the rings with their toothed hearts turn against each other in the dark, and I have stopped being able to tell which one is driving.

Yesterday the smallest one at the foot came loose and rolled under the bench. I got down on my knees with the torch and found it against the wall, still warm from my hand. I could not make it sit back on its pin, so I carried it in my waistcoat pocket all afternoon, feeling its teeth press into my palm each time I reached for the kettle.

When the cable runs again I will ride the first car up with the wheels, and you can meet me at the top station with the brass. Bring the small file. If the last cog will not seat, leave it on the sill by the window where the light comes in, and we will see whether the mountain minds.