Page 158 of Pocket Wife

“And after?”

I glance down at our joined hands.

“I want to petition for resident witness status under Solaris Valley’s continuity panel.”

Lucy’s eyes widen.

“Not ownership,” I say. “Not authority. Duty.”

Her mouth trembles before she masters it. “You want to stay.”

“If the valley consents.”

She swallows. “And if I consent?”

My voice lowers. “That matters most.”

For a moment, the meeting hall fades to edges. Not gone. Never gone. The valley is part of us now. But within it, between us, there is a quiet space no corporation built and no tribunal can grant.

Lucy steps closer.

“I consent,” she says.

I lift her hand and kiss her knuckles.

The gesture is formal.

The bond is not.

Eight hours become a beginning.

The Helix ships leave settlement airspace before sunset.

No one trusts the sky until the last white hull vanishes beyond the ridge. Even then, Torren keeps two scanners pointed upward and declares he will sleep when capitalism develops shame. Celia tells him shame requires a soul. Jessa writes none of that into the official record, though I suspect she keeps a private one.

By evening, the valley gathers at the north cistern.

Not because Salo orders it.

Because everyone finds their way there.

The neutral shield still glows around the registry. Preservation Officer Kell stands beside it, looking overwhelmed by the number of residents who bring bread, water cups, seed packets, burial stones, repair tools, and school slates as if the registry were not an object but an elder who deserves to see who survived.

Lucy stands at the cistern rail with me beside her.

The blue threads move in the cooling air.

Twin suns lower over the fields, turning stone, dust, and water gold.

Alden reads the tribunal order aloud. His voice breaks twice. No one minds. Then he reads the old line from the registry.

No single hand may sell what many hands require to live.

This time, the valley answers.

Not loudly.

Together.