Hunger is supposed to be obedient.
That is the assumption power always makes.
That when bellies ache and cupboards empty, people will bend. They will register. They will comply. They will accept whatever terms are offered, because survival feels heavier than dignity when you are alone.
The Candles counted on that.
They miscalculated the together.
By the third day of restricted aid, hunger is real.
Not cinematic. Not dramatic.
Quiet.
It settles into homes like a second winter, thinning tempers, slowing steps, sharpening every sound. People wake earlier because their bodies ask for food before their minds are ready to answer. Children grow quieter. Adults ration without saying the word.
And still, the unregistered tables remain.
Smaller.
Lean.
Stubborn.
At the river table, porti
