Tyla’s POV
The first time the city chooses without asking, I don’t hear about it from a council or a report.
I hear about it from a child.
She can’t be more than seven, hair in uneven braids, shoes two sizes too big. She collides with me in the lower terrace market and nearly bounces off my hip.
“Sorry!” she blurts, then freezes, eyes wide.
Not in awe.
In recognition.
“You’re the lady who listens,” she says.
I blink. “I will try.”
She nods gravely, as if I’ve confirmed something important. “They fixed the bridge.”
“That’s good,” I say. “Which bridge?”
“The broken one by the river. The one everyone argued about.”
I smile. “How did they decide?”
She shrugs, already halfway turned away. “They stopped arguing.”
And then she’s gone, swallowed by the noise and color of the market.
