Chapter 9 – Two Roads, One Light
The valley narrowed as Leah and Clara made their final descent toward Roanoke. Pines gave way to open hills, and the flicker of power lines long dead stretched like forgotten chords across the blue ridges.
They stopped by a stone bridge just outside the city, hiding beneath a canopy of green.
“It should be just over that rise,” Leah said, pointing toward the glow in the distance.
The Roanoke Star, perched atop Mill Mountain, lit the evening sky with a silent rhythm. A flicker. A pause. Then again.
Ezra’s signal.
Clara smiled. “They kept it going.”
Leah opened her journal and sketched the pattern. “Not just a beacon. It’s a key. If the pulse intervals match what’s in the glyph book, it means the node at the Star is active. Ezra’s there.”
They continued walking under cover of trees, sticking to trails and unused alleys until the skyline came into view. Roanoke had fared better than most cities—scattered damage, but not flattened. Still, it was quiet. Too quiet.
Clara leaned close. “The Beast never had to destroy this place. It just erased the story.”
Leah nodded. “But we’re writing it back.”
Farther north, Naomi stared down from the overlook.
The city shimmered in the valley below, lights dimming as the sun slipped behind the peaks. She pulled out the small copper disc Ezra had given her—a relic from the Watchtower’s earliest days, engraved with coordinates, radio frequencies, and a single phrase:
REMEMBER WHO YOU WERE BEFORE THE WIRE
Thomas stood beside her, his coat dusty, boots worn from the climb.
“Feels strange to walk into a city again,” he said.
Naomi looked up at him. “We’re not going back. We’re going forward.”
They followed the switchback trail up Mill Mountain, each bend revealing more of the Star’s structure—steel beams laced with age and memory. At the summit, the wind picked up, and they saw her.
Leah stood near the control box at the base of the tower, fingers still on the signal key.
Clara turned at the sound of footsteps. Her breath caught.
Naomi stepped forward slowly, her voice uncertain but blooming with recognition. “Leah?”
Leah froze, then turned. Her eyes widened. “Naomi?”
“You used to bring the red corn,” Naomi said, almost in a whisper. “You told me the glyphs for fire and seed.”
Leah stepped closer, searching her face. “You kept the journal.”
Naomi nodded. “Every night, in the ash.”
Then she ran into Leah’s arms.
Thomas and Clara stood quietly, watching as two threads of the past wove themselves back together.
Ezra emerged from the shadows, his smile quiet and worn. He looked at each of them—his niece, the teacher, the traveler, and the scribe.
“The Watchtower is lit again,” he said. “And we’re not the only ones.”
That night, they camped beneath the Star, passing around packets of dried food, seed journals, and maps stitched together from memory and scraps.
Leah retold their escape through the poisoned Amish community and the chemical corridors of West Virginia.
Thomas recounted their journey to the vault, the mural of faces, and the analog records buried deep.
Naomi described the code fragments she’d begun collecting—symbols from old libraries, glyphs from childhood drawings that now matched carved signs across the valleys.
They took turns speaking. Then listening.
Then simply being.
No static. No broadcast. Just memory.
Outside, the Star pulsed.
And far away, in deep channels monitored by the Beast, the interference pattern began to shift—slightly, but enough to draw attention.
The Watchtower was no longer just a whisper.
It had become a chorus.
American Prophet 