The restored wall stood as a quiet sentinel, a testament to collective effort and understood balance. For Finnian, the act of building it had been a silent sermon, its lessons more profound than any philosophical text. He had learned the grammar of stone and the syntax of mutual support. The city, in its gentle, unyielding way, was remaking him, not by erasing who he was, but by teaching him a new application for his own faculties.
His days continued their rhythm, but a new dimension of belonging had settled upon him. He was no longer a subject of curiosity or a recipient of charity. He was Finnian, who mended things. His past was an open secret, acknowledged but not dwelled upon, like an old scar that had faded into the landscape of his skin.
