Atlas sat on the low stone wall that marked the edge of their private garden, sharpening a knife that didn't need sharpening.
The blade was already keen. Elara stood a few paces away, arms crossed, watching a group of younger workers haul supplies toward the central square.
Neither of them spoke for a long minute. The air smelled like turned soil and woodsmoke.
"We've been circling this for months," Elara said finally. "Time to say it out loud."
Atlas tested the edge with his thumb and nodded. "I'm tired of pretending we're still the ones who have to catch every loose thread. The kids—Kai, Jessa, Mara—they're ready. We step back. Not all the way, but enough."
That afternoon they gathered the four in the old planning hall. No fanfare. Just a table, some bread, and watered wine. Atlas laid it out plain.
"Shadow weeks start tomorrow. You run the decisions. We watch. We tell stories if you ask. Otherwise we stay out of it. This isn't retirement. It's making room."
