The car rolled down the mountain without fuel. It didn't need it. The battery was charged by the road itself. Every turn of the wheels generated power. Every mile healed the asphalt. The cracks filled with quartz. The weeds pulled back to let the tires pass. It was as if the Earth was guiding them home.
Ezra drove in silence. His hands rested lightly on the wheel. He didn't need to steer. The car knew the way. Tomas sat in the passenger seat, cleaning his rifle. He didn't speak. There was nothing left to say. The war was over. The Directors were trapped in their own bunker, stripped of their power, forced to live in the world they tried to suppress. They would learn to grow potatoes. Or they would starve. Either way, they were no longer a threat.
But the silence was heavy. It pressed aga
