On the anniversary of the breach and executions, the station held a ceremony at the monument. Thousands of people gathered—people who'd lived through the old system, people born after the revolution, people from neighboring communities who'd come to pay their respects.
Maren stood before the crowd, looking at the fifty-one stone pillars that represented those who'd died. He'd prepared a speech, but as he looked at the assembled people, he realized that words weren't really necessary.
The monument spoke for itself. The presence of people from all three former districts, gathered together in unity and respect, was the real message. The systems and attitudes that had divided people for so long were gone. Love and solidarity had replaced them.
He stepped forward anyway, because the people had gathered to hear someone speak.
"Fifty-one people died fighting for a better world," he said. "Among them was my sister, Sera. Among them was Kael, who loved her. Among them were people from every district, every background, united by a belief that things could be different."
He paused, looking at the young faces in the crowd. "They didn't live to see the world they fought for. But we live in it. We experience the reality of a more just society, built on the foundation of their sacrifice. And we have a responsibility—to continue fighting for justice, to continue building on what they started, to ensure that no future generation returns to the systems that caused such suffering."
He looked directly at the monument, at the pillar bearing Sera's name.
"My sister believed in something I didn't understand at the time. She believed that love was revolutionary. That loving people enough to fight for their dignity, their freedom, their right to exist without oppression—that was the most powerful force in the world. More powerful than weapons. More powerful than authority. More powerful than fear."
Maren's voice grew stronger. "The love she showed, the sacrifice she made—it changed everything. Not because she was special or chosen, but because she was human. Because we're all human. And humans have the capacity to see injustice and choose to fight against it, even when it costs everything."
He turned to address the crowd directly. "Many of you knew Sera. Many of you knew Kael and the others who died. But for those of you who didn't—and for the generations who will learn about them through stories—I want you to understand something: they weren't trying to create perfection. They were trying to create the possibility of justice. They were trying to prove that change was possible."
An old woman in the front row was crying. It was Lydia. She'd come to every ceremony since the monument had been erected, to honor her children—the daughter she'd lost to execution and the son who'd survived to help build something new.
"The system that exists now isn't perfect," Maren continued. "We still have problems. We still have injustices that need addressing. We still have people who are marginalized and struggles that need to be overcome. But the fundamental framework has changed. We've proven that it's possible to build a society based on equity and solidarity instead of hierarchy and exploitation."
He looked at the different groups in the crowd—the older residents who'd lived through both systems, the middle generation who'd been transformed by the revolution, the children who'd never known anything but the new system.
"Each of you has a role to play. The older generation remembers what it was like before. You can teach people about the dangers of allowing systems of oppression to take root. The middle generation experienced the transformation. You can help guide people through the complexities of building something new. And the younger generation—you have the opportunity to imagine and create systems that are even more just than what we have now."
He paused. "Sera used to say that the worst thing about the system was that it required people to forget. It required us to forget that things could be different. It required us to forget our common humanity. She died fighting against that forgetting. So let's make sure we remember. Let's remember what was sacrificed. Let's remember why it was sacrificed. And let's commit to continuing the work of building a world where such sacrifice is no longer necessary."
As Maren stepped back, the crowd was silent for a moment. Then, starting from the front, people began to step forward and place objects at the base of the monument. Flowers. Letters. Small personal items. Each one was a gesture of remembrance, of connection to those who'd died.
Among those who came forward was a young couple—a man from what had been the Upper District and a woman from what had been the Lower District. They'd met after the revolution, had fallen in love across the old boundaries. They placed an item at the monument and whispered something to each other. Then they kissed, right there in front of everyone—a gesture that would have been unthinkable in the old system.
It was a small moment, but it encapsulated everything the revolution had been about. The breaking down of barriers, both literal and psychological. The recognition of common humanity. The possibility of love and connection across divides that had been artificially constructed.