WIP. This room is still being dug. The archive it reads is thin and the day-by-day view has rough edges — the finished room tonight is the Haul.
Every night, every seam, what it yielded. Everything ever hauled up and kept, browsable by month and day. A row is the record — the day, the seam, the grade band — and opening one brings back the whole card that shipped that morning: the figure, the finding, the caveat, the abstract.