Visibility changed everything.
Elara felt it the moment she stepped into the open square the next morning—no cloak pulled low, no effort to disappear. The air around her tightened, not with danger, but attention. Eyes lingered. Conversations slowed. People noticed.
Not because they recognized her.
Because something about her presence resisted smoothing.
"She's here," Kael murmured beside her. "People feel it."
Mira scanned the edges of the square. "And so will the Conclave."
Elara nodded. "Let them."
They sat on the stone steps near the fountain, not performing, not speaking—just existing. Kael leaned back, relaxed but alert. Mira read quietly, annotating a battered notebook. Elara closed her eyes and listened.
Not beneath reality.
To it.
The square breathed: footsteps, laughter, irritation, longing. The small, unresolved textures of life.
A woman nearby argued with her partner in hushed tones. A vendor scolded a child, then softened. A man stared at his hands, jaw clenched, fighting a thought he didn't want to name.
Nothing dramatic.
Everything human.
"Why are they staring?" a passerby whispered.
"Because they're not selling anything," someone else replied.
Hours passed.
Someone finally approached—a young man with careful posture and tired eyes.
"Are you… offering help?" he asked.
Elara opened her eyes and met his gaze. "I'm offering company."
He hesitated. "Does it work?"
She smiled gently. "What are you hoping it fixes?"
He swallowed. "I don't know anymore."
"That's okay," she said. "Sit if you want."
He did.
Then another person lingered. And another. They didn't form a crowd so much as a weather. People came and went, pausing, listening, speaking quietly, leaving with expressions that didn't resolve into smiles—but settled.
This was the contrast.
Not proof.
Presence.
The Conclave responded by noon.
Two representatives approached, dressed plainly, expressions composed.
"May we speak with you privately?" one asked Elara.
She stood. "Here is fine."
A ripple moved through the square. The representatives exchanged glances, then nodded.
"You are encouraging unregulated emotional exposure," the taller one said calmly. "This can destabilize vulnerable populations."
Elara tilted her head. "I'm sitting."
"You are influencing outcomes," the other added. "Without credentials."
"People influence outcomes by existing near each other," Elara replied. "That's not malpractice. It's society."
The taller representative smiled, patient. "We respect your intentions. But intentions don't measure impact."
Kael stepped forward. "Neither do your charts."
The smile tightened.
"We have data," the representative said. "You have anecdotes."
Elara looked around the square.
"I have people," she said softly.
A woman nearby spoke up before thinking better of it. "I came here because the clinic helped me. But afterward… I couldn't cry at my mother's funeral."
Murmurs spread.
The representative turned. "Adjustment lag is normal—"
"It's been three months," the woman said. "I'm tired of being told to wait."
Silence thickened.
The representatives retreated, dignity intact but momentum stalled.
"We will escalate review," one said.
Elara nodded. "So will life."
That evening, the city screens changed again.
New messaging. Softer still.
INTEGRATED HEALING
Balance includes expression.
Clips appeared of counselors listening longer. Clinics adding "expression rooms." The language shifted—absorbing the critique without surrendering control.
"They're adapting," Mira said. "Again."
"Yes," Elara replied. "But now they're following."
Kael watched the square empty as dusk fell. "How long can you do this?"
Elara considered the question.
"Not long," she admitted. "Visibility drains me faster than resistance."
Mira closed her notebook. "Then we prepare for the next phase."
Elara's chest tightened. "Which is?"
Mira met her eyes. "They'll try to make you unnecessary."
The attempt came quietly.
A new figure appeared in the city—warm, articulate, deeply relatable. A former patient turned advocate, speaking openly about how integrated healing gave her both calm and expression.
She listened. She validated. She redirected.
She was good.
Too good.
"They're building a mirror," Kael said after watching a broadcast. "A version of you they can manage."
Elara watched the woman speak—sincere, practiced, careful.
"They don't need to silence me," Elara said. "They just need to replace me."
Mira nodded. "And if people choose the safer version?"
Elara closed her eyes.
"Then they choose it," she said. "I won't compete."
Kael's voice was tight. "That costs us ground."
"It preserves the point," Elara replied. "This was never about winning."
That night, Elara dreamed of a vessel filled with water.
Every time she tried to hold it steady, someone added more—carefully, helpfully—until it overflowed.
She woke with a start, breath ragged.
"Kael," she whispered.
He was instantly awake. "What is it?"
"They're going to over-heal something important," she said. "Something central. Public. Symbolic."
His jaw tightened. "What?"
She swallowed.
"Grief," she said. "On a scale you can't miss."
Outside, sirens wailed—not alarms, but announcements.
A public memorial had been scheduled for the next day.
A Citywide Ceremony of Release
Collective Healing. Collective Closure.
Elara stared into the dark.
"They're going to teach people how to let go," she whispered.
Kael followed her gaze. "And you think—"
"I think," Elara said, voice steady despite the fear rising in her chest, "they're about to prove exactly what healing should never become."
The city settled into sleep, expectant and calm.
And beneath that calm, a storm gathered—not of anger, but of unanswered sorrow.
Tomorrow, it would be invited to disappear.
And Elara knew she would have to decide—
Whether to interrupt again.
Or to let the world feel the cost for itself.