"Has someone been in here?"
Old hands crank new generators to life, loud whirring, strings of bulbs flickering to life over skeletal frames. Cockroach spies scatter out of the encroaching light, broadcasting reports in their chitter codes. To whom? To whom?
"Tilled soil, ashes, bonemeal. Plants aren't wild grown, not many insect nests. Someone has been rooting around in here."
The evidence of such tampering is soon lost under the treading of heavy feet, forgot as the old hands resettle in their hangars, busy with new walls and mirrors.