It was the evening of December twenty-fourth, seventeen eighty-seven.
Phillip stood near the edge of the yard, coat buttoned high, watching the last cart roll out through the gates. It carried timber, not poles. Repairs, not expansion. Someone had decided the line could wait a day.
He had not ordered it.
He did not countermand it.
Henry joined him a moment later, holding two folded coats under his arm.
"They've started leaving early," Henry said. "No complaints. Just… understanding."
Phillip nodded. "Good."
Henry hesitated. "The Commission offices are closing at midnight. Skeleton crew only. Priority traffic restricted to emergencies."
"Approved?" Phillip asked.
Henry smiled faintly. "They didn't ask."
Phillip breathed out slowly. "That might be the first real sign of success."
