Vanishing into the smoke

Above ground, the night sky over Los Angeles glowed an unnatural orange, the light pulsing like the heartbeat of a dying giant. One by one, the communication towers—once the spines of the city’s connection to the outside world—were swallowed by fire. Metal skeletons collapsed in showers of sparks, their red aviation lights blinking erratically until they vanished into the smoke.

The survivors who still wandered the streets stood frozen, their faces illuminated by the flames. Some clutched bags of scavenged food, others gripped weapons fashioned from pipes and broken tools. They weren’t strangers to destruction—war had already reduced the city to rubble—but this was different. The towers weren’t just structures; they were the last fragile threads linking the city to the idea of something larger, something beyond the wasteland.

Without them, the city was an island of silence.

From a shattered rooftop, a young woman named Kira watched a tower’s final moments. The heat from the blaze stung her face even from blocks away. She had grown up in the years after the war, never knowing the freedom her parents spoke of, but she had clung to the idea that the world outside still existed. Now, as the steel frame groaned and folded in on itself, she felt that hope crack like glass underfoot.

On the streets below, people murmured in disbelief. The old ones shook their heads, eyes shining with tears. Others just stared, numb, as if watching a funeral they hadn’t expected to attend so soon. The air smelled of burning plastic and scorched circuitry—a stench that settled into the skin.

A boy in the crowd whispered, “That was the last one.” His voice carried in the silence, and the truth of it rippled through the gathering. There would be no more messages, no more intercepted broadcasts, no chance of hearing from the outside—if the outside even still existed.

Some turned away, retreating into the darkness between buildings. Others lingered, unwilling to move, as if leaving would make it final. They all knew, deep down, that the fire wasn’t just consuming metal and wires—it was consuming the future. Every flame that climbed the towers took another piece of possibility with it.

Somewhere, a child began to cry. And in the deep, unspoken place within each of them, they felt the same.

The war had taken their homes, their families, their peace. Now, it had taken their voice.

Freedom, once a distant dream, seemed further than ever—vanishing into the smoke that rolled across the dead city.