Dawn crawls over the ruins, pale and reluctant. The air smells of ash and new rain.
In the courtyard that used to be a plaza, people work in near-silence: stacking brick, untangling wire, sweeping glass into neat, dignified piles. Every scrape of broom against stone sounds like penance.
From the roof above them, I watch the city exhale steam. The towers glow faint blue in the distance—my pulse, stretched across the skyline. Every few seconds a vein of red slips through, quick and guilty, then disappears.
Dominic joins me with two mugs of instant coffee that tastes like burnt courage.
“You’ve been up all night again,” he says.
“Technically,” I answer, “I’m always up.”
He gives a small, crooked smile. “Don’t make that sound noble.”
“It isn’t.” I sip. The heat burns my tongue, anchors
