Lines are usually imagined as things you draw.
This one was stood.
It begins before dawn, when the city is still deciding whether it will wake afraid or angry.
At the eastern junction, where blood once darkened the stone and questions took root, people arrive quietly. Not summoned. Not organized. They come alone or in pairs, wrapped in coats, carrying nothing that looks like resistance.
They stand.
That is all.
By sunrise, the line is visible.
Not a barricade.
Not a wall.
A row of bodies shoulder to shoulder, leaving a clear passage through the street and refusing to step aside when patrols approach. Men and women. Old and young. Some Candle-aligned. Some watcher-supported. Some marked by nothing at all.
Neutrality died yesterday.
But this is something else.
This is refusal giv
