The next morning, the fire was still smoldering.
Lucian had raked it before dawn, clearing out the char from the larger items—buttons, metal bits, a melted glass bottle someone had tossed in without warning.
It hissed as he sifted through, revealing a soft bed of embered ash. He left it glowing. The fire had become its own kind of clock.
When did I become so comfortable in a town like this?
From the other side of the square, Alice stood beside the statue of Mayor Hilder, squinting into the weak light. Her eyes tracked movement—not the mourners, who now came with quiet regularity—but the watchers.
There were more today. Fewer offerings, more crossed arms.
She spotted one in particular.
A woman standing behind the dried-up water trough, pretending to examine the ivy crawling along its rim. Long grey-green shawl, sun-faded apron, small basket hanging limp at her side.
Elra Norwen. Town herbalist. Former midwife. Chronic tea-sipper.
Perfectly unremarkable.
