"Education is survival." Alexander's voice was quiet but firm. "Most of us lost our childhoods when we became mimics. Lost our families, our identities, our futures. But the young ones here—" He gestured to where several child-shaped mimics were playing near the construction site, their forms flickering but happy. "They deserve a chance to grow up as more than just survivors."

Marron's throat tightened. "That's... that's really good, Alexander."

"We learned it from you, actually."

"I didn't teach you to build a school—"

"You taught us that we deserved better." Alexander looked at her, his expression serious. "That wanting more than survival wasn't greedy. That learning, growing, improving—those weren't luxuries. They were necessities." He paused. "The school is just us applying that lesson."

Marron didn't know what to say to that, so she said nothing. Just watched the foundation being laid, brick by brick, for a place where mimic children would learn to read.

Lunch was a communal affair—flatbreads with cheese and vegetables, simple but nourishing. Marron sat with a group of mimics who were taking a break, listening to them talk about construction challenges and solutions.

"The well is the hardest part," one was saying. "We need to dig deep enough to hit good water, but the soil is mostly clay about ten feet down."

"Could we line it with stone?"

"If we can source enough. The quarry is three days south, and we don't have enough people to spare for the trip."

"What about using preserved wood? I heard they do that in the eastern provinces—"

The conversation flowed around Marron, technical and practical and alive with problem-solving. These weren't monsters. They were people building a town, facing the same challenges any settlement would face, working together to overcome them.

She thought about the Whetvale mimics—the ones who'd killed and replaced innocents. The difference was stark. These mimics had chosen a different path. Had been given the chance to choose, unlike those who'd been corrupted or desperate or lost.

"You're thinking hard about something," Cara observed, settling down next to Marron with her own flatbread. "Your face does this thing when you're processing."

"Does it?" Marron touched her face self-consciously.

"Yeah. You get this little crease right here—" Cara tapped her own forehead. "And you stop blinking as much."

"That's... weirdly specific."

"I notice things." Cara took a bite of her lunch, chewing thoughtfully. "So what's the deep thought?"

Marron hesitated, then decided honesty was fair. "I was thinking about how different you all are from other mimics I've heard about. The ones who kill and replace people."

Cara's expression went carefully neutral. "We could be like that. Some of us were, for a while. It's easier, you know? Taking someone's face, their memories, their life. Less work than building our own."

"What changed?"

"Alexander." Cara's voice softened. "He told us we could be better. That we didn't have to steal lives—we could make our own. It sounded impossible at first. But then you came, and you fed us like we mattered, and..." She shrugged. "It stopped sounding impossible."

"I just made soup."

"You made good soup," Cara corrected, echoing what Millie had said earlier. "And you didn't treat us like we were less-than for being what we are. You treated us like people who were hungry. That's—" She paused, searching for words. "That's everything, actually."

Marron felt that familiar tightness in her chest, the one that came when she was confronted with the weight of casual kindness. "I'm glad it helped."

"More than helped. You showed us what we could be." Cara smiled—a young, hopeful expression that made her look even more like the teenager she appeared to be. "Now we're building it. A place where mimics don't have to steal or hide or pretend. Where we can just... be."

After lunch, Marron helped with small tasks—holding boards while others hammered, fetching tools, carrying water. Nothing that required her Legendary Tools or cooking skills. Just hands and effort and being part of the communal work.

It was... nice. Grounding. The kind of simple labor that let her mind settle and process everything that had happened in the last few days.

As the sun started to lower, the work pace gradually slowed. Mimics began cleaning up work sites, putting away tools, preparing for the evening meal. Someone had already started a fire in the communal pit, and the smell of cooking vegetables drifted through the settlement.

Marron found herself drawn to the partially completed building that Alexander had identified as the future school. The foundation was solid now, and the frame of the walls was beginning to take shape. She could see where the door would be, where windows would let in light.

"Imagining it finished?" Keeper's voice came from behind her, resonant and calm.

Marron turned to find the tall, hooded figure standing a few paces away. His smooth, pale mask caught the evening light, and those bright blue eyes were fixed on the building.

"Yeah," Marron admitted. "Trying to picture kids learning here. Seems... hopeful."

"Hopeful is good." Keeper moved to stand beside her, his presence solid and ancient. "This world needs more hope."

They stood in silence for a moment, watching the settlement prepare for evening.

"Can I ask you something?" Marron said finally.

"You may ask. I may even answer."

"You've been around since before the cataclysm. You remember the old world—the one where the Legendary Tools were made, where communities thrived, where things were... different." She looked up at him, at those blue eyes that had seen nearly a century of change. "Do you mourn it? The world that was?"

Keeper was quiet for so long that Marron thought he might not answer. Then, slowly, he spoke.

"Yes," he said simply. "I mourn it. Sometimes."

"Sometimes?"

"The world before the cataclysm was not perfect." Keeper's voice carried the weight of memory. "There was inequality, injustice, pain. But there was also... beauty. Craft. Communities that knew each other's names. Master craftspeople who poured their lives into making tools that would outlast them. Cooks who fed their neighbors not for profit but because that's what neighbors did."

He gestured to the school, to New Brookvale, to the mimics settling in for evening.

"That world is gone," he continued. "The cataclysm shattered it into pieces, scattered those communities, turned tools meant for serving into prizes for taking. It changed fundamental things about how people relate to each other, to their craft, to the land itself."

"That sounds like a yes to the mourning question," Marron said quietly.

"I mourn what was lost," Keeper agreed. "The masters who made the Legendary Tools—I knew some of them. Spoke with them. Watched them work. Therra, who made your ladle, spent three years perfecting it. Three years of her life poured into creating something that would understand need and respond with generosity. She died in the cataclysm, like so many others. Her city fell. Her knowledge scattered."

Marron's hand unconsciously went to her pocket, where she'd tucked the ladle earlier. "I'm sorry."

"Don't be." Keeper's tone shifted, becoming warmer. "Because here is what I've learned in nearly a century of remembering: mourning the past and hoping for the future are not opposites. They can exist together."

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