Tyla’s POV
The future announces itself in small, inconvenient ways.
A roof that leaks because no one noticed the rot beneath the tiles. A meeting that runs too long because everyone has something to say and no one quite knows how to stop. A child who asks a question that has no clean answer and refuses to accept silence in its place.
These things used to feel like warnings.
Now they feel like proof.
—
The roof belongs to a family in the northern quarter. I learn about it because the child—sharp-eyed, stubborn—tracks me down in the market and tells me so, as if this is obviously my responsibility.
“You helped fix the bridge,” she says. “So you can help fix this.”
I consider pointing out that bridges and roofs are different disciplines entirely.
Instead, I follow her.
Arthur joins
