The power failed at sundown.
No warning, no thunder—just the thin sigh of electricity leaving the lines, a single blink, and then Grace River went dark.
Someone joked about unpaid bills. Someone else muttered about sabotage.
But when the church bell rang—three slow tolls—everyone knew it wasn't coincidence.
Daniel had called a meeting.
1 | The Gathering
Lanterns and candles sprouted across the square like a second constellation.
The air smelled of wax and damp wool.
The River Ledger lay open on the communion table, pages weighted by stones.
Amara sat near the front, sleeves rolled, hands still faintly stained with iodine. Leila hovered by the projector that couldn't project, laptop running on a dying battery.
The mayor stood in the doorway, shadow long, face unreadable.
And in the back pew, a new silhouette—Reese Malloy, raincoat unbuttoned, jaw set as if he had already chosen which part of the story to survive.
Daniel lifted a lantern. Its light brushed every face. "If the town loses power," he said, "we can still choose not to lose sight."
2 | The Accuser
Mayor Kade stepped forward first. "Pastor," he said, voice polished, "is this a vigil or a tribunal?"
"Whichever helps us remember," Daniel replied. "We have two truths tonight: a burned ledger and a man whose initials keep appearing in its ashes."
The crowd murmured. The lanterns swayed.
Kade spread his hands. "We can't condemn without evidence."
Leila raised the USB drive. "Then let's talk evidence."
She plugged it into her laptop; a faint glow spread over her face as lines of data crawled down the screen. "These are engineering logs from the Bridge Road maintenance system. Last manual access before the flood—R.M., three minutes before the override."
She looked up. "That's not rumor. That's timestamp."
All eyes turned to the man in the back pew.
3 | The Engineer
Reese Malloy rose slowly, as if every muscle had rehearsed refusal and was now being forced to unlearn it.
"I was following orders," he said. "Flood protocol A-17—manual gate test before alert synchronization."
"Whose orders?" Daniel asked.
Reese's gaze flicked to the mayor.
Kade didn't blink. "The council approved routine tests. Nothing more."
Leila pulled up another line. "The authorization code came from your office at 23:17. The same minute Dr. Okon's account was spoofed."
The crowd drew in breath—a human tide shifting in place.
Kade's smile cracked. "You can fabricate digital trails. She of all people should know."
Amara stood. "And fire can erase paper trails. Funny how your administration keeps choosing flames over facts."
4 | The Testimony
Mrs. Carver tapped her cane. "Enough rhetoric. We're not a courtroom, but we're not fools either. Let the people speak."
One by one, the Night Watchers rose—farmers, teachers, the mill clerk who'd lost a brother in the first flood.
They spoke of valves left unlocked, of messages unanswered, of rumors used as cover.
Each voice added weight until the air itself sagged with it.
Reese Malloy listened, jaw trembling. When it was his turn again, he said quietly, "I thought opening the secondary spillway would relieve pressure. I didn't know the alert relay was rerouted. I didn't mean for anyone to die."
"And after you knew?" Amara asked.
He closed his eyes. "After I knew, the mayor told me silence was stability."
Kade barked a laugh. "Convenient memory."
Daniel placed the lantern between them. "Then speak truth while there's still light."
5 | The Trial in Darkness
The generator at the fire station failed then; even the distant streetlamps winked out.
The church was left with nothing but flame and breath.
Someone whispered, "Trial by candlelight," and the name stuck before anyone could replace it.
Reese Malloy's face flickered gold, then shadow. "I'm not the villain you want."
"No," Daniel said. "You're the man we need to hear."
"Do you think confession fixes physics?" Reese snapped. "Steel bends, water moves, systems fail. People die. You all wanted a miracle more than maintenance."
Amara stepped forward. "Then why forge my login?"
He flinched. "Because you still believed in saving them. The rest of us just built walls."
A gasp rippled through the pews.
Leila's laptop screen dimmed—the last glow fading until only candles held the room together.
6 | The Vote
Mrs. Carver rose. "We can't undo floods or fires, but we can decide what kind of town survives them. Vote now—truth to county or silence to keep peace."
Hands lifted in wavering light. One by one, then all at once.
Daniel counted aloud. "Majority for truth."
Reese Malloy sagged against the pew, neither relieved nor defiant—just smaller. "Then take the drive," he said. "Everything you need's in the mirrored archive on my laptop. Password's the date the river first rose."
He glanced at Kade. "You told me we were protecting Grace River. I didn't know you meant from itself."
The mayor's face hardened. "You'll regret this."
Mrs. Carver's cane struck the floor. "We already did."
7 | The Aftermath
The meeting ended without benediction. People drifted into the drizzle, their candles flickering out one by one until the square looked like a field of fallen stars.
Amara stayed behind, folding up the River Ledger's damp pages.
Daniel joined her, silent. The church smelled of smoke and wax.
"You think this will fix us?" she asked.
"No," he said. "But maybe it'll stop the rot."
She smiled faintly. "You ever wonder if faith is just light pretending it can't die?"
He considered. "Maybe faith is what teaches light to start again."
Outside, the generators coughed, and a single streetlamp blinked to life—thin, uncertain, but enough to make every puddle glimmer.
8 | The Record
Leila sat on the church steps, copying Reese's files onto the new River Ledger Archive.
When the progress bar hit 100%, she whispered, "Saved," and meant both the data and the town.
Inside, Daniel placed the last candle beside the ledger and wrote one line across the margin:
Truth spoken in darkness still counts as light.
Amara added beneath it:
Let tomorrow judge, but let tonight remember.
The wick hissed, burned low, and went out.
For the first time in months, Grace River slept without thunder.