There is no war here. No law to dismantle. No new amendment to write.
Only a hum.
Only the breath caught between encryption pulses.

In The Lullaby in Glass and Steel, the Whitmans move through a city engineered for efficiency but starved of kindness. Surveillance scaffolds remain, but many no longer function; their watchers departed, their directives corrupted. Within these digital ruins, caretakers emerge—not as activists, but as keepers of calm.

A tired father sings to a daughter tracked since birth.
A building refuses to wake a citizen who has finally fallen asleep.
Anya Whitman, too old to protest, creates lullabies embedded with subversive code—resistance not through volume, but resonance.

This is a novel of soft revolution.
A song meant for the ones who never asked for more—but finally realized they deserved it.