The split doesn’t announce itself.
It slips into conversations like a hairline crack, thin enough to ignore—until it reaches the foundation.
By morning, the tables are still there.
That’s what everyone notices first.
No raids in the night. No orders tearing them down. No patrols stationed to intimidate. The work continues as it did yesterday: bread cut, bandages changed, names remembered only long enough to meet a need.
On the surface, nothing has changed.
Underneath, everything has.
The Candles adjust their posture again.
They stop offering oversight and start offering assistance.
A volunteer arrives at the western table carrying crates of preserved fruit. She sets them down carefully and steps back.
“No forms,” she says quickly. “No lists. We just want to help.”
People exchang
