THE NEW WORLD

  (Penned by Adalbert Van Aarden, in his darkest hour, before the sun rose again)

  COME.

  COME, ALL OF YOU.

  Hear me, Hasholm.

  Hear me, you who rise before dawn to knead bread into shape.

  Hear me, you who set iron to fire and call it purpose.

  Hear me, you who stand watch with stiff backs and tired eyes.

  Hear me.

  What a power we are.

  Rising.

  Growing.

  Straining upward, as men have always strained toward the sun, hands lifted, refusing to forget the sky. Even bent low, even driven down, we reached.

  The old world has ended. Its string has been cut. It hangs loose in our hands. It no longer pulls true. It no longer answers. What fills its place is fog—thick and clinging—and commands spoken after the hour has passed.

  We move through that fog without sight.

  Many hands together part the mist. One blade dulls. Edges gathered make paths where none stood before.

  A world in motion grants no stillness. When the ground splits, bodies close the gap. When the wall breaks, weight is taken up where it falls.

  Steady hands.

  Upright backs.

  Neighbors pressed close enough to feel breath and heat.

  If you spot this story on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

  Breaches hold this way.

  Cities endure this way.

  No cry was needed.

  The cannons have fallen silent.

  The boats have not returned.

  Our loved ones are gone, and still we stand.

  The world we knew—creased and bent beneath habit—has halted. Its promises no longer move what stands before us. We wait. The air answers nothing.

  Leadership gathers where the world stalled.

  Hands reach.

  Voices lift.

  Decisions take shape close enough to weigh upon the chest.

  Beautiful people of Hasholm—

  I speak because sleep has fled your eyes.

  I speak because you already feel the ground shifting beneath your feet.

  Our nation leans toward the brink. The fog tightens. Beyond our walls, each day grows heavier, more uncertain, more cruel in its quiet.

  This city knows labor. It knows shared weight. It knows hunger broken by warm ovens through the night. It knows prayer spoken shoulder to shoulder, voice carried by voice.

  What is asked of us stands plain.

  Presence.

  Hands.

  The will to lift what has already fallen among us.

  COME.

  ALL OF YOU.

  Attend the banner moving in the wind of change. It drifts, steady, borne by many breaths, held aloft by no single hand.

  Look at the world forming around you. Look at what our hands have shaped. Look at what still waits to rise. This ground is marked by effort given, and open to effort yet to come.

  I speak so you will look.

  I speak so looking becomes knowing.

  Fog cannot smother light held in common. It presses through. It endures.

  COME TO THE MARKET.

  Stand together.

  Take your place.

  The work remains.