Isaac did not die on the steps of the civic hall.
That surprised everyone.
The bullet that struck his shoulder shattered bone but missed his heart by inches. The second grazed his side, tearing flesh but sparing organs. By the time medics—unmarked, unauthorized—reached him, the soldiers had retreated, unsure whether they had just created a martyr or failed to.
The city breathed again, slow and shaken.
Isaac woke to darkness and the steady rhythm of a heartbeat monitor powered by a generator. The air smelled of antiseptic and dust. When he tried to move, pain anchored him back to the narrow bed.
Mara was there, asleep in a chair, her head resting against the wall. She looked older than she had days ago.
He whispered her name.
She jolted awake instantly. "You're alive."
"So it seems," Isaac said faintly.
Her relief collapsed into anger. "You nearly weren't."
"I know."
She stood, pacing once, then stopping. "Do you have any idea what you've done?"
Isaac searched her face. "I made it impossible to pretend nothing happened."
Outside the safehouse, the city was no longer quiet.
The government's attempt to silence the movement had fractured its authority. Security forces disagreed openly. Some units refused orders. Others enforced them brutally, creating images that spread faster than censorship could contain.
And the names—still spoken.
Hospitals, markets, schools. Children asked their parents why people kept repeating names before bedtime. Teachers, ignoring new guidelines, explained what remembering meant.
The Registry went offline three days later.
Officially, it was a maintenance failure.
Unofficially, no one would touch it.
Ruth visited Isaac on the fourth day. She looked exhausted, her composure finally cracking.
"They've lost control of the narrative," she said. "And Hale knows it."
"As long as they still hold power," Isaac replied, "they'll try to rewrite it."
Ruth nodded. "Which is why he wants to meet you."
Mara stiffened. "Absolutely not."
"It's already arranged," Ruth said. "Public. Broadcast. He can't make you disappear this time."
Isaac considered it.
"I'll go," he said.
The broadcast took place in the same plaza where Alina Mora had spoken her name.
Director Hale stood alone this time. No kneeling prisoners. No display of force.
Just him.
Isaac joined him on the platform, arm in a sling, face pale but steady.
"For years," Hale began, "we have maintained stability through careful management of information."
Isaac interrupted him.
"You erased people."
A ripple went through the crowd.
Hale inhaled slowly. "We prevented chaos."
"You defined chaos as dissent," Isaac replied. "As memory."
The silence stretched.
Hale turned to face him fully. "You think this ends well?" he asked quietly. "You think a city built on remembering every wound survives?"
"No," Isaac said. "I think it changes."
Hale's voice hardened. "Change destroys systems."
"Yes," Isaac agreed. "That's the point."
The broadcast cut abruptly.
Not by censorship.
By resignation.
An hour later, Director Hale submitted his departure "for health reasons."
No replacement was announced.
Power did not vanish overnight.
But it loosened.
Committees formed. Investigations began. The word amnesty appeared, cautiously, in official language. The Registry remained sealed, its servers untouched like a tomb no one dared open.
Isaac left the safehouse weeks later.
He walked the city slowly, leaning on a cane, unnoticed by most. He preferred it that way.
Murals appeared on walls—names painted in careful rows. Candles burned beneath them. People stopped, read, whispered.
Not in anger.
In care.
Mara joined him one evening as the sun dipped below the skyline.
"They're calling it the Remembering," she said. "As if it's an event."
Isaac smiled faintly. "It's not. It's a practice."
"What happens to you now?" she asked.
He considered the question.
"I don't know," he said honestly. "I was erased once. I don't think I want to be central again."
She nodded, understanding.
They stood in silence, listening to the city breathe—uneven, uncertain, alive.
Somewhere, a child asked a parent about a name they didn't recognize.
And the parent answered.
Isaac felt the network still there—not as a force, not as a movement, but as a quiet thread binding people together through shared memory.
Fragile.
Uncontrollable.
Human.