The bells of Saint Jude’s in the Upper Market were ringing the third bell of the afternoon when Tomas Reed walked across the cobbled square toward the Bellwether Town Hall.
He didn’t carry his ash pack-frame. That remained in the office in North Market Lane, leaned safely against Olla’s hearth. He carried only the original cedar delivery box of Chapter 001, cradled gently in both hands against his chest like an infant wrapped in swaddling clothes.
The Upper Market square was crowded with hundreds of citizens: weavers in their blue aprons, boatmen from the quays, wagon drivers, market women with baskets of late apples, and elderly river veterans leaning on willow canes. Word had spread through the alleys and taverns with the speed of a flood-creature. Tomas Reed is bringing Oren’s box to the archive.
They didn’t crowd him. They didn’t push forward to touch his clothes or shout his name. They parted before him in total, respectful silence. They formed a wide, clear lane across the ancient granite flags. They took off their caps and held them against their breasts as the porter walked past.
Tomas walked with his head up, his boots clicking in steady, steady pace on the stone.
