The world had never been this quiet.Luca sat by the edge of the bed, elbows resting on his knees, fingers tangled in his hair. The fire had burned down to gray ash, and thin curls of smoke drifted lazily upward, carrying the scent of charred wood. Outside, dawn stretched across the hills, its pale light seeping through the cracked window like the world was slowly remembering how to breathe again.He hadn’t slept. Not really. The hours between night and morning had passed in a blur of thoughts he couldn’t name. He had been watching Grace the whole time, afraid that if he blinked too long she might fade, that the peace he saw in her face would vanish the moment he stopped looking.Her chest rose and fell with the rhythm of sleep. She looked weightless, as if the shadows that had once clung to her had finally let go. He couldn’t remember the last time she looked this still, this free of pain.He glanced toward the far side of the room. The mirror was gone. Or rather, what remained of it was

The rain had stopped, but the scent of it still hung in the air. The courtyard glistened in soft silver light, and for a while, neither Luca nor Grace spoke. They just stood there, their hands still touching, as if the silence itself was part of what they needed to say.When the wind shifted again, Luca felt it—a pulse, faint but sure, coming from somewhere deep beneath the castle. He opened his eyes, the feeling crawling up his spine like a memory. Grace noticed the change in his expression.“What is it?” she asked.He shook his head, listening. “Something’s still moving.”The light that had flickered earlier wasn’t gone. It was faint now, almost shy, peeking through the cracks in the stone wall near the east wing. Grace turned to it, her breath catching.“Do you see that?” she whispered.Luca nodded slowly. “I thought it was just me.”They moved closer together. The ground felt damp under their boots, and every step echoed softly. The glow was steady now—a heartbeat beneath the ruin.Grace

The world has been quieter since the storm ended. Not silent—just quieter. The kind of quiet that feels alive, where every breath carries the echo of what’s been lost. Sometimes I wake up before dawn and listen to it, the faint sound of the wind moving through the broken trees, the whisper of the river beyond the ridge. It almost sounds like breathing.Valeria used to say the world never truly sleeps. Even when everything falls apart, it finds ways to hum again, to heal itself in small invisible moments. I never understood that before. But now, sitting on the edge of the ruins with my hands still wrapped in scars that won’t fade, I think I do.The air smells of ash and earth. Morning light cuts through the mist like threads of gold, touching the stones that once held everything we fought for. My reflection in the shallow pool nearby looks almost like a stranger—tired eyes, faint bruises, hair that’s lost its sheen. But there’s something else too, something quieter. A steadiness I didn’t

The road east was silent except for the crunch of our boots and the occasional cry of a distant bird. The sun climbed slowly, half-hidden behind thick gray clouds, and the air tasted of smoke and rain. It had been three days since we left the valley, and still the ashes clung to us like a second skin.I walked ahead of the others, my thoughts heavy and uneven. The memory of Valeria’s voice lingered, quieter now, but still there. A whisper behind every breath. I kept telling myself it was just my mind trying to fill the silence, yet some part of me didn’t want it to stop. That voice reminded me of why I still moved forward.Dante walked beside me, limping less now, though his right arm remained wrapped in a fresh bandage Mira insisted on changing every morning. He said little, which I appreciated. Words didn’t matter much out here. It was the silences that told the truth—the way his hand brushed his weapon whenever the trees shifted, the way Grace walked with her head low, scanning for m

The city had changed, or maybe it was me. Every corner, every sound carried a weight I couldn’t name. The wind smelled of burnt rain and street smoke, like something half-healed. Buildings stood where ruins once were, glass and light replacing stone and ash. But beneath it all, the same pulse beat—the same quiet unrest that never really died.We came back to rebuild, or at least that’s what everyone kept saying. Grace called it hope. Mira called it duty. I called it survival.I still wake before sunrise most days. The city looks softer then, before the chaos begins. From the apartment window, I can see the river winding through the heart of the streets like a vein of light. I watch it in silence, coffee untouched, waiting for something I can’t name.Grace says I look for ghosts in daylight. She’s not wrong.That morning, she entered quietly, her reflection blurring behind mine in the glass. “You didn’t sleep again,” she said, her voice low.“I tried.”“You always say that.”She stood beside