The Quiet Keeper

You pry up a floorboard beneath your bed and tuck the vial into the dark, where no drone can hum and no Inspector can see. Days pass. Years, even. You take your rations. You smile when you're told to smile.

But some nights, you lift the glass to the moonlight, watching gold swirl like a trapped sunrise. One day, you tell yourself. When it's safe. It never is. The city grieves without knowing why—and so, quietly, do you.