The Republia Times -

It was Emrik Thorne, a retired bridge inspector with a bad hip and a worse sense of self-preservation, who first noticed the hairline fracture running from the statue’s bronze collar to the left ventricle of its hollow chest. He reported it to the District Beautification Office, as required by the Civic Diligence Act of ’89. They thanked him for his vigilance and filed the report in a cabinet whose lock had rusted shut years ago.

“They don’t have to go quietly,” Emrik said. “They just have to go.”

And underneath, something began to crack. the republia times

The Eastern Reaches were never the enemy. We were. We burned our own granaries and blamed the fog. We shot our own messengers and called it self-defense. I have the ledgers. I have the maps. I have the names.

If you are reading this, the statue has broken. Good. It was meant to break. I designed the flaw myself in ’43, when they forced me to pose for the casting. They thought I was weeping with gratitude for my pardon. I was weeping because I knew no one would believe what I almost died to say. It was Emrik Thorne, a retired bridge inspector

Do not build another statue of me. Build a library.

For forty-seven years, the bronze figure of First Architect Maldon Voss has stood at the junction of Reconciliation Way and the old river road, his outstretched hand pointing toward the eastern mountains—toward the border, toward the enemy who no longer had a name. Children were taught to salute it. Lovers held hands beneath its shadow. Dissidents were marched past it on their way to the processing centers, so they might remember what strength looked like. “They don’t have to go quietly,” Emrik said

“Truth Shall Not Perish, Though the State May Tremble”