Tyla’s POV
The world does not thank us.
Not properly. Not in the way stories insist it should.
There are no statues raised in our likeness, no anniversaries declared holy. If there are speeches, they are small and badly timed, delivered in half-empty halls by people who don’t quite know who they’re addressing anymore.
I think that might be the point.
—
The work settles into rhythm.
Not routine—nothing is that neat—but pattern. Problems rise and fall like weather. Some weeks bring nothing heavier than a zoning dispute over market stalls. Other weeks carry grief that still tastes of ash.
Arthur takes longer walks now.
He maps the city the way a person maps a body they are relearning how to live inside. He learns which streets flood first in heavy rain. Which bakeries give bread away
