They broke ground on the first morning of frost.
Not because it was ceremonial, but because it was necessary. The Commons needed warmth—something that would last.
Children gathered with twine and sketches. Builders arrived with worn gloves and quiet pride. Neighbors carried beams over their shoulders as if lifting a roof was a kind of prayer.
And at the center, marked by the ashes of the last forum fire, a square of soil was cleared.
The Hearth would rise from there.
Not just a building. A promise of shelter and gathering, open walls and listening stone.
Oren oversaw the foundation, measuring each line not for symmetry—but for welcome.
Mina carved names into the first corner beam: not leaders, but voices—drawn from the Forum, from the record books, from pages passed hand to hand.
H
