Carradine's video played out in Ivy's mind.
There he was—alive.
Thinner, older, dark circles under his eyes, but unmistakably him.
He entered through a side door, looked at the camera as though he knew it was recording, and spoke in a low voice:
"She's almost ready."
And then he vanished into a hallway.
No time stamp. No audio. Just twenty-four seconds of proof that what she'd believed was finished… wasn't.
Elias paced the floor of the archive.
"Where the hell is he?" he growled. "If he's alive, why hasn't he turned up here?"
"Because he wants this to be mine now," Ivy said.
Elias halted.
She was serene. Focused. More than ever.
"You think he's testing you?"
"I think he's passing it on."
That afternoon, the council investigation became aggressive.
The leak had embarrassed too many people. Ivy was now called to a second committee—this one closed-door, off-the-record, no media.
They did not want answers.
They wanted control.
And they wanted her alone.
At 4:00, a woman knocked on the door of the archive.
She was older, maybe sixty, dressed like a woman who'd fought her share of battles and didn't care that anyone knew it.
"I'm Talia Reyes," she said. "I saw my name in your file drop."
Ivy blinked. "You're supposed to be—"
"Gone?" Talia finished, smiling thinly. "I've been underground. Watching. Making sure the right story broke when it was time."
"And it's time," Ivy said.
Talia nodded. "You need protection." Legal. Physical. Informational. You're the keystone now. If you fall, this all scatters."
"I don't want to lead a movement."
"Too late."
Ivy stood in the center of her apartment, which was now cluttered with files, hard drives, USBs, phone chargers, and scraps of paper notes in a dozen languages. The couch was concealed. The kitchen remained untouched. But the room hummed.
This was not the residence of a reserved girl.
This was a command center.
She could sense the load.
And for the first time since the flood, she did not feel crushed by it.
Within hours, #FindCarradine was trending.
Someone had posted the video—on purpose or by accident, Ivy had no idea.
But the public had seen it.
And now people demanded answers.
Not just about the city.
About her.
At noon, the library gates swung open.
No proclamation.
No escort.
Just a soft click—and the doors swinging open as if they shouldn't have been locked.
Inside, the archive was dark and dusty but in one piece.
And on Ivy's desk, where she'd set her lunch:
A single manila envelope.
She opened it.
Inside was a roster of every name that appeared in the Stillpoint files.
Some were celebrities. Some were anonymous contributors. A few were journalists. Two were old friends of Elias's.
At the foot of the page:
"The center cannot hold. Choose your outer circle wisely."
Outside, the city churned.
Protests overflowed from the library to City Hall, radio stations, and newsrooms. People carried homemade placards:
"Where Is Carradine?"
"Let Her Speak."
"We Remember Everything."
And between them, something new.
Young people.
Teens.
Kids in hoodies with earbuds and do-it-yourself posters.
Organizing.
They weren't heading to Ivy for all the answers.
They were taking things into their own hands.
Talia arranged Ivy's testimony at a third site—a stand-alone civic court aided by international observers. It was not legally binding, but it would be public.
"It's risky," Elias said. "They'll come after you."
"They already do," Ivy replied. "But now they'll have to do it in front of everyone."
The hearing room was small. Just folding chairs in rows, a single mic, and three cameras broadcasting live to over a hundred thousand people.
Ivy walked up to the mic unprepared.
Without a lawyer.
Without cover.
And she testified.
"My name is Ivy Casella. I am not an activist. I am not an official. I was an assistant archivist in a forgotten room of a city that doesn't always listen. But I listen. And what I heard was pain."
"The papers I published weren't intended to be mine. They were intended to be buried. I didn't leak them to punish. I shared them because someone had to."
"This isn't about zoning. It's not about contracts. It's about memory. It's about people who were erased and still came back to whisper, "I was here."
She finished with:
"If I'm the center now, then I want the world to spin out from me—not toward me. Let this movement grow because you believe in yourselves. Not just me."
Silence.
Then applause.
Then cheers.
And then a roar.
Not for a politician.
Not for a celebrity.
For a girl who listened.