What Remains Unsaid
The first thing Iria noticed was the quiet.
Not the charged stillness of tension, nor the watchful calm of waiting—but the absence of noise where it should have been. The want had thinned. Not vanished, not eased—thinned, stretched so fine it was almost translucent.
It frightened her more than its weight ever had.
She felt it while walking the market at nightcycle, vendors packing away their wares beneath lanternlight that never quite warmed the air. Laughter flickered, then faded. Conversations paused when she passed—not out of reverence, but something closer to restraint.
People were choosing what not to say.
That evening, a sealed letter arrived. No insignia. No signature.
Some truths cost more than silence, it read. Choose carefully.
Iria folded it once, then again, feeling the want ripple with recognition. Not threat. Warning.
She brought it to Lumi.
"This isn't the Concord," Lumi said after reading it. "It's local."
"That's worse," Iria replied.
They traced the city together, listening—not to what was spoken, but to what wasn't. Rumors circled the edges of conversations like skittish animals. Someone mentioned a missing dockworker, then changed the subject. Another praised the council's transparency, then laughed too quickly.
Kael joined them near the river divide. "There's a group meeting after dark," he said. "They call themselves the Remainders."
Iria's pulse ticked up. "What do they want?"
Kael hesitated. "To preserve what the curse protected."
The want shuddered—nostalgia sharpened into fear.
They found the meeting in a half-flooded warehouse, candles reflected in the black water pooling across the floor. The Remainders weren't many. Ordinary faces. Familiar ones.
A woman stepped forward. "We survived because the night made us careful," she said. "Now everything is open. Exposed."
"We're not asking for the curse back," another voice added quickly. "Just… constraints."
Iria listened, heart heavy.
"You want silence," she said. "Rules about what may be shared. Who may know."
"Yes," the woman said. "Before someone uses truth as a weapon."
The want surged—sharp, conflicted. Protection tangled with control.
Iria closed her eyes.
Truth bearing had always meant revealing.
She was only beginning to learn it also meant withholding.
"Silence can be a kindness," she said slowly. "But it cannot be enforced. Not here. Not now."
Murmurs rippled through the group.
"Then what do we do?" someone asked. "When truth hurts?"
Iria opened her eyes. "We choose who we trust with it. And we accept that some pain isn't preventable."
The woman's jaw tightened. "That's easy to say when you're not the one bleeding."
Kael stepped forward. "It's not," he said quietly. "That's why she's standing here."
The meeting dissolved without agreement. No threats. No resolutions. Just people leaving with heavier steps than they'd arrived with.
Later, Iria stood alone by the river, watching the water swallow candle stubs one by one.
Some truths would never be spoken aloud.
Some silences would protect. Others would rot.
The want drifted, uncertain.
And Iria understood that freedom didn't just mean telling the truth…
…it meant living with what remained unsaid.