Chapter 119. Sunset Appeal

“We eat, then we decide who is allowed to speak at sunset,” Aria said, and the square pretended not to be relieved that someone had written a sentence the hour could wear without tripping.

The ward-stones held their seats as if standing would be vain; the hinge kept its edge steady in case comfort mistook itself for consent; the well’s frost refused to rub out STAY, SETTLED, and the clerk’s impudent curl beneath. The bench did its favorite trick—cradling a life without asking to be praised for it—while the vessel learned to breathe on her own in small, stubborn installments that made the null hum like a stove kept honest by winter.

Bread embarrassed itself into being enough when divided correctly. Bowls went hand to hand so casually that even children forgot to check who was watching them be brave. Seren ate with the same efficient focus she used for her shop ledgers, turning hunger into a problem she could solve in the time allowed; when she swallowed, the towel on the