CAPITAL — ONE YEAR AFTER THE ARCHIVE ATTACK
The morning Sera decided to write the ending, nothing special was happening.
No crisis.
No delegation.
No emergency session or existential threat.
Just an ordinary Tuesday in late spring, with sunlight coming through the window of our shared quarters and the sound of the city waking up below—merchants opening stalls, children running to school, clerks beginning the patient work of keeping civilization functional.
I woke to find her already sitting at the small desk by the window, a blank page in front of her, pen in hand.
Not writing.
Just looking at the paper.
"Sera?"
She glanced back at me, and her expression was—
I don't have words for it.
Peaceful, maybe.
But not the peace of resignation.
The peace of someone who had finally understood something they'd been circling for a long time.
"I need to write something," she said. "And I don't know if I can explain it yet. But I need to write it."
I sat up slowly.
"Should I go?"
