In the new central plaza—no longer dominated by the Council's seat of power—a monument was erected. It was simple: fifty-one stone pillars, each engraved with the name of someone who'd died in the breached barrier or in the executions that followed. The pillars formed a circle, with a space in the center where people gathered for reflection.
Sera's pillar was one of them. So was Kael's. So was Kael's father, whose name had been added posthumously when they'd begun researching those who'd died under the old system's oppression.
The monument had become a gathering place. Anniversaries of the breach and executions were marked by public ceremonies. Educational groups brought young people to learn about the revolution. Resistance activists from other stations—there were several underground communities in different parts of the world—came to study how change had happened here.
What surprised many observers was that the station's transformation hadn't led to complete economic collapse or social chaos. In fact, over the six years, quality of life had improved for most residents. With resources distributed more equitably, with access to education and healthcare universalized, mortality rates dropped. Birth rates actually increased because people no longer felt that having children was an impossible burden.
The revolution had also changed the station's culture in profound ways. Without the rigid hierarchy, without the constant competition for resources, people had time to invest in community building, in arts and culture, in philosophical exploration. The tunnels that had been places of suffering became places of gathering and celebration.
It wasn't a utopia. There were still conflicts, still injustices, still problems that needed solving. But they were being addressed differently. Instead of force and repression, the new system used dialogue, negotiation, and the possibility of reform.