The cost arrives before the gratitude does.
It always does.
The morning after hunger refuses to obey, the city wakes sore.
Not wounded.
Sore in the way bodies feel after holding something heavy for too long. Arms ache. Backs protest. Tempers sit close to the surface. The work of feeding one another without permission has demanded more than food.
It has demanded time.
It has demanded risk.
It has demanded memory.
And memory is expensive.
At the river table, the ledger is thinner now.
Not because less has been given, but because it is harder to track what no longer moves in neat lines. Supplies arrive from everywhere. A loaf here. A sack there. A pot placed down with a nod and no name.
Elen flips the pages and sighs.
“We’re losing count,” she murmurs.
Kael stands beside her, wat
