The human cost of the transition was measured by Regina in calorie deficits, supply chain gaps, and morbidity rates. It was grim, but it was honest. Rex worked to counterbalance the hard facts with tangible projects.
"The Grand Avenue Fountain will flow again!" he announced. "But not with a pump! With a chorus!"
He enlisted Sage, Valentine, and the Choir. They didn't repair the pump; they removed it. In its place, they built a complex, tiered structure of resonating bowls and fluted channels, each tuned to a different harmonic of the Vitae. At its base, they etched the master Stillpoint pattern.
On the day of the reactivation, a crowd gathered, their faces pinched with worry and curiosity. There was no switch. Lysander's Choir simply stood around the dry basin and began to hum, their voices amplified by small, handheld resonators. They hummed the Chord of the Spire.
For a long moment, nothing. Then, a vibration trembled through the stone. From a grille at the base, a trickle of opalescent Vitae emerged. It didn't gush; it climbed. It spiraled up the channels, ringing each bowl like a bell, filling the air with a physical, shimmering melody. It reached the top and cascaded down in a curtain of singing water.
The crowd was silent, then a wave of gasps and soft applause rippled through them. It was not the fierce, wasteful jet of before. It was a performance. A gift. A child reached out to touch the falling stream and laughed, the sound pure and bright.
It didn't fill their canteens. But for the first time since the change, it filled something else. Awe. Wonder. A memory that the world could be beautiful, not just efficient.