Choice, once learned, demanded renewal.
Rhen felt it like a dull ache behind his eyes as he reviewed the latest proposals. None were dangerous. None were urgent. That was what made them heavy. Each asked the same quiet thing: Will you decide again, or let yesterday decide for you?
Nymera watched him from across the table. "You're tired."
"So are they," he replied. "Choice doesn't get easier just because you practice it."
"No," she agreed. "It gets clearer. And clarity costs."
The cost surfaced in disagreement that would not resolve.
A long-term water-sharing compact with inland neighbors—balanced, fair, reversible—failed to gain consensus. Not because it was flawed, but because it required the city to choose a posture it could not later deny.
"If we sign," a steward argued, "we commit to showing up even when it hurts."
"And if we don't," another countered, "we keep flexibility."
Nymera listened, hands still. "Flexibility isn't free," she said at last. "It just delays payment."
The room stilled.
Outside, the unbuilt space drew attention again.
People stood there, debating futures that could not coexist. Some wanted a learning pier—temporary, educational. Others wanted nothing at all, fearing the slow creep of attachment.
Rhen joined a small circle arguing softly at the edge.
"What happens if we choose wrong?" someone asked.
Rhen answered honestly. "We live with it. And we choose again."
The simplicity unsettled them.
The deep spoke that evening, its voice carrying an edge Rhen hadn't heard before.
Your repeated choosing introduces fatigue, it conveyed. Why not fix a path and follow it?
Nymera smiled faintly. "Because paths harden."
Hardened paths increase throughput, the deep replied.
"And decrease listening," Rhen said.
A pause.
Listening consumes time.
"Yes," Nymera replied. "Time is the cost we keep paying."
The inland compact returned to the floor a second time.
This time, the debate shifted.
Not should we, but what would it ask of us if we did.
Caretakers spoke about strain.
Builders spoke about schedules.
Children's advocates spoke about continuity.
No one pretended the choice was neutral.
When the vote came, it passed narrowly.
No cheers followed.
People sat with it.
The signing was modest.
No banners.
No press.
Just names written carefully, with a clause highlighted in bold:
SUBJECT TO REVIEW AND RELEASE.
Nymera exhaled slowly. "We chose."
Rhen nodded. "And we'll have to choose again."
"Yes," she said. "That's the cost."
The city felt the impact immediately.
Resources flowed outward more often. Schedules tightened. Some days felt unfair. Others felt necessary.
Complaints arrived—and were answered.
The compact held—not because it was perfect, but because people remembered why they had chosen it.
Weeks later, someone erased the chalk near the unbuilt space and wrote something new:
CHOICE IS A MUSCLE.
REST IT. USE IT.
DON'T LET IT ATROPHY.
Nymera read it twice, then smiled.
That night, Rhen stood with her on the bridge, the city humming below in uneven, living rhythm.
"Do you ever wish we could stop deciding?" he asked quietly.
She considered. "Sometimes."
"And?"
"And then we wouldn't be who we are," she replied.
He nodded, satisfied.
The city did not become peaceful.
It became practiced.
Practiced at choosing.
Practiced at paying the cost.
Practiced at letting go and beginning again.
And in that practice—tiring, imperfect, ongoing—it found a kind of strength no certainty could offer:
The strength to remain awake
to its own decisions
and willing
to choose again tomorrow.