Letting go is louder than holding on.
That is what surprises them.
Not the grief. Not the fear. But the sound a person makes when they choose to step out of something that felt safe and realize how thin the air is beyond it.
By morning, six people have left Candle houses.
By nightfall, there are twelve.
The number is small enough to be dismissed. Large enough to be noticed.
The first to return is a woman named Ansel.
She arrives at the watcher station just after dusk, wrapped in a coat too big for her frame, hands clenched so tightly her knuckles are white. She doesn’t ask for help at first. She just stands there, breathing like each inhale costs her something.
Irena approaches slowly, palms open, careful not to crowd her.
“You don’t have to explain,” Irena says.
Ansel shakes her
