They stood in silence.
Dozens at first. Then hundreds. Some barefoot. Some in tattered suits or melted uniforms. Families clutched each other. Loners stood apart. Their faces were hollow, cheeks dark with soot or dried tears. No one moved.
The city was burning again.
This time, there was no emergency broadcast, no helicopters, no sirens. Just the slow, deliberate rise of black smoke choking out the late sun. Orange flames licked at shattered glass towers, catching on torn banners and faded pride.
The fire moved like a tide — consuming everything left behind. A slow-motion erasure.
Some said it was sabotage. Others said it was mercy.
They all watched.
From the ridge outside the city’s edge — once a scenic overlook filled with tourists and joggers — now a refugee post, the view was perfect. Tragic and perfect.
Elias stood there too, hood up, dust clinging to the folds of his coat. Lina was beside him, her arms crossed tight.
A boy asked aloud, voice dry and cracking:
“Was it always this quiet when cities died?”
No one answered.
Behind them, supply trucks were being loaded. Maps were being redrawn in chalk. A new world, etched over the ruins of the old. But no one turned to watch that.
They were all staring at the same thing:
The death of what they used to call civilization.
Each person imagining their old life — the coffee shop they once loved, the office they hated, the tiny apartment that still held their favorite books, now ash.
It wasn’t just a city that burned.
It was every illusion that held it up.
As the last tower collapsed in on itself, a low rumble echoed over the hills.
And still… no one spoke.
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