The Shape of Silence
Madeline
The sun was just beginning to bleed into the horizon, casting the sky in the fragile hue of old paper—faded, brittle, the kind you might find tucked into the pages of a forgotten book. If you reached up, it felt like it would crumble under your touch.
I hadn’t wanted to take his advice last night. Pride had nearly driven me back out into the street. But something in the way he’d said it—quiet, steady, like he already knew I would—kept me tethered to the thought. So I did. I listened.
The building I found was skeletal but standing. An old apartment block wedged between two fire-gutted shops, its sign rusted beyond recognition. The brick façade still held, surprisingly intact despite the violence. There were no visible cracks along the foundation, no vine
