Liora stepped back out into the night, the borrowed book held tightly against her chest. The Road to Serfdom. She hadn’t known the title an hour ago. Now, its weight was more than physical. It was a burden, a question, a flicker of betrayal against everything she had once shouted in the streets.
Smoke rolled low across the ground as she walked, curling like fingers around her ankles. Sirens blared in the distance, but no one came. The authorities no longer protected the city—they cheered its unraveling or cowered in silence. Fires danced in the windows of familiar buildings. A statue of Frederick Douglass lay broken in the street, shattered by the same hands that claimed to fight for justice.
She passed posters of herself—not literally, but the idea of herself: fists raised, slogans beneath bold typefaces. “No past. No patriarchy. No peace until we’re heard.” Once those words had thrilled her. Now they tasted like ash.
As she moved deeper into the ruins, she noticed something strange. In the alleys and gaps between buildings, figures moved quietly. Not rioters. Not looters. People with purpose. Some carried packs; others scanned the walls, looking for hidden markers—chalk symbols, subtle glyphs. She caught a glimpse of one: an open book drawn beneath a flame.
She followed.
It led her beneath a collapsed overpass and into a forgotten maintenance tunnel. The sounds of the burning world above faded behind her, replaced by the hum of hushed voices and the scratch of pen against paper.
She emerged into a subterranean space lit by lanterns and warmed by the heat of a dozen minds at work. The Archivists.
Elena looked up from a stack of salvaged manuscripts. Her eyes narrowed slightly as she took in Liora's face—young, scared, and stained with the soot of conviction turned to doubt.
“You’re not one of them anymore, are you?” Elena asked, not accusing—just tired.
Liora didn’t answer. Instead, she held up the book she had borrowed.
“I didn’t know,” she whispered. “About any of it. I thought we were saving the world. But we’re just burning it down.”
Grant stepped forward, arms crossed. “Then why are you here?”
Liora took a breath. “Because I need to tell her. Mara. I need her to hear it from someone who stood beside her. Maybe… maybe I can reach her.”
Micah emerged from the shadows. “That’s a dangerous idea. You think they’ll let you walk back in after what you’ve seen?”
“I don’t care,” Liora said. “I started this fire too. I helped it spread. I have to try to put it out.”
There was silence. Then Elena handed her a second book—A Letter Concerning Toleration—and placed a hand on her shoulder.
“If you go back, you may not return,” she said. “But if you’re willing, we’ll walk beside you. Not to fight. Just to bear witness.”
Liora nodded.
And so she climbed back into the fire, flanked by those who remembered, those who resisted, and those who had never stopped believing that the truth could still cut through the smoke.
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