Questions usually belong to someone.
They’re asked from a mouth, aimed at an answer, closed when the answer arrives. This one behaves differently. It moves through the city like weather, settling where it wants, refusing to be claimed by any single voice.
It begins quietly.
A man repairing nets at the river asks it without realizing.
“When do we stop adjusting?” he mutters.
No one answers him.
The question stays.
By midday, it surfaces again in a different form.
A woman at the market pauses over a trade and says, half to herself, “What are we actually building?”
The vendor shrugs. “Still here,” he says.
She nods. “Yeah. But… beyond that.”
The shadow coils, attentive.
Unowned questions are the most dangerous kind.
The city doesn’t gather to address it.
That’s important.
If th
