Guilt is heavier than hunger.
Hunger empties you.
Guilt fills you until you cannot breathe.
Power prefers hunger.
The first sign that guilt has found its way inside the Candles is silence.
Not the watchful kind.
Not the strategic pause.
The uncomfortable kind that stretches between sentences and refuses to be filled.
At the morning briefing, volunteers shift in their seats. Reports are delivered too quickly, eyes flicking toward the door as if someone might overhear thoughts they haven’t spoken aloud yet.
Aid numbers.
Movement data.
Compliance percentages.
The words land, but they don’t settle.
Calen listens with his hands folded, posture immaculate.
He notices everything.
The hesitation before a name.
The way “noncompliant zones” is said more softly now.
The pause that fo
