At first, I think it’s only the silence.
The kind that comes after explosions—the ringing in the ears, the quiet between collapses. But this isn’t that kind of silence. It moves. It listens.
Wind sighs through the ruins of the tower. The smoke has begun to thin, curling in ribbons over the city. Ash drifts through the air like falling paper. The streets below are full of ghosts in human shape—survivors moving carefully, not yet sure what the world will let them keep.
I stand at the edge of the rooftop, the same place where the tower used to meet the sky.
Everything hurts. But it’s the right kind of pain—the kind that reminds you you’re still here.
Dominic is a few meters behind me, cleaning his gun even though there’s nothing left to shoot. He does it to keep his hands from shaking. A
