The Endless Chain They say a grey pipe stands in Bermondsey, and from it hangs a chain that never ends. Those who touch it feel the first tug is theirsbut before long, it is the chain that pulls them. The links are old and slick, cold as river iron, clattering out in an endless stream. Some swear they have pulled for hours, others for days. The promise is always the same: treasure lies at the end. But there is no end. The chain grows heavier as it uncoils, as if something below is dragging its weight through the earth. Sometimes the links turn warm, pulsing like a heartbeat. Sometimes they whisper, faint as a crowd behind a closed door. A few have vanished into itswallowed when they refused to let go. Others return pale, unable to speak, their hands raw and bleeding, still twitching in their sleep as though they are pulling. And always, always, the clinking echoes in the night, even when no one stands near. The old saying goes: the treasure is not at the end of the chain the chain itself is the treasure. And like all treasures, it demands a price.