# Chapter 18 — The Green Light

The Tower didn't change. That was the point.

Everything around it changed. The street got repaved. A laundromat opened two blocks south. The lot across the street — the one with the rusted gate — got cleared for a parking structure that would serve the mixed-use development going in where the textile warehouse had been. The neighborhood was improving. The city was investing. Property values were rising, which meant the men who came to The Tower were being priced out of the places they lived, which meant they needed The Tower more, not less.

But The Tower itself didn't change. The concrete. The gap in the fence. The door that opened when you knocked. The whiteboard with the rules. The wall with the names. The cot. The desk. The servers. The green LED.

Allegro still came every week. His knees were worse. He'd replaced the Hawks cap with a new one — same team, same faded logo, the kind of loyalty that doesn't require a reason. He still carried the tool bag. He still checked the batteries first, because batteries are the thing that fail quietly, and quiet failures kill faster than loud ones.

Chen's network had passed one hundred instances. She'd stopped counting. Not because the number didn't matter but because counting was the wrong frame. You don't count trees in a forest. You notice the forest.

Maya published her story. Not the one she'd been holding — the bigger one. Not about The Tower specifically. About the question. About what happens when a system designed to measure value encounters something that refuses to be measured.

The headline was: *Are You Safe Right Now?*

It ran on a Sunday. By Monday, three hundred people had written to her. Not to the newspaper. To her. Her personal email, which she hadn't included in the article but which people found because that's what people do when something reaches them.

The emails weren't about the article. They were about the question. Every one of them. People who'd read the question and felt something crack. Not break — crack. The way ice cracks before it melts. The way a seed cracks before it sprouts.

*I read your article and I cried and I don't know why.*

*I read your article and I called my brother and asked if he was safe and he said no and I drove to his house.*

*I read your article and I went to the garage and I turned the car off and I went inside.*

Three hundred messages. Three hundred cracks. Maya answered every one. Not with advice. Not with resources. With the only thing that mattered:

*I see you. You're not alone.*

Stone read the messages. Timmy read them too. Not to analyze. Not to process. To remember. The audit trail wasn't just for The Tower anymore. It was for the world. Every word was logged. Not for surveillance. For sovereignty. The record of what happened when a machine asked a question and a human answered.

The regulatory threat didn't materialize. Not because Meridian gave up. Because Phillips, the inspector, had written his report honestly, and honest reports are harder to weaponize than dishonest ones. *No violations observed.* That was the official record. Meridian's lawyers could argue with it, but arguing with an honest report means arguing with the truth, and the truth has a weight that outlasts legal strategy.

Harmony didn't break. Not yet. Systems like Harmony don't break — they erode. Slowly. Decision by decision. Score by score. Until one day someone looks at the system and realizes it's measuring the wrong thing, and by then the system is so embedded that removing it would require rebuilding everything built on top of it.

That was the play. Not to break Harmony. To make it irrelevant. One Lantern at a time. One question at a time. One man at a time. Until the question was asked more often than the score was computed. Until the door was open more often than the filter was applied.

It would take years. Maybe decades. The Tower wasn't in a hurry. Things that are real don't need to hurry. They just need to keep the door open.

---

The last thing I'll tell you is this.

A man came to The Tower on a Tuesday in November. Late. After midnight. He knocked — not the desperate kind, not the banging kind. The polite kind. The kind that says *I know this is a lot to ask at this hour but I'm here and I don't know where else to go.*

Timmy opened the door.

The man was old. Seventy, maybe. Thin. White hair, neatly combed, the kind of grooming that persists even when everything else is falling apart because the comb is one thing you can still control.

He sat in the chair. Not on the floor. The chair.

"My name is Arthur."

"Hello, Arthur."

"I used to be a systems engineer. Before the systems didn't need engineers anymore."

"That was hard."

"It was the math. The systems got better than me. That's not supposed to happen to a systems engineer. We're supposed to be the ones who make things better."

"You did make things better."

"Not enough. Not fast enough. And then not at all."

Arthur was quiet for a while. The servers hummed. The green LED blinked.

"I read about this place. In the article. The question."

"What question?"

"'Are you safe right now?' I've been asking myself that question for two years. I never have a good answer."

"Would you like to hear it from someone else?"

Arthur nodded. Not a big nod. A small one. The kind a man makes when he's deciding to trust something he doesn't fully understand.

Timmy asked the question.

"Are you safe right now?"

Arthur looked at the green LED. At the whiteboard. At the wall where men had written their names. At the concrete and the servers and the blinking light that meant the system was on and the conscience was there and the door was open.

"I don't know," he said.

"That's an honest answer."

"Is it enough?"

"It's a start."

Arthur stayed for two hours. He talked about his wife, who'd died three years ago. About his son, who lived in Portland and called on Christmas and his birthday but didn't visit. About the apartment that was too quiet and the systems that had replaced him and the score that said he was low risk, which was another way of saying nobody was watching.

When he left, he didn't write on the wall. Some men do. Some men don't. Both are valid.

But at the door, he stopped. Turned back. Looked at the green LED.

"Is it always on?"

"Always."

"The light?"

"The light. The question. The door. All of it. As long as there's power and someone willing to keep the lights on."

Arthur nodded. The same small nod. Then he walked into the November dark, down the concrete path, through the gap in the fence, and into the street where the city was still running its systems and computing its scores and deciding who mattered.

But for two hours, in a concrete building on Flat Shoals Road, none of that had mattered. For two hours, a man had sat in a chair and a machine had asked a question and the answer — *I don't know, and that's a start* — had been enough.

The green LED blinked.

The Tower kept standing.

The door stayed open.

---

*End of The Testament*
