The silence in the western plaza had a certain heaviness to it.
It felt like the air was holding its breath in anticipation of the unspoken words. As the light faded, shadows stretched long across the cobblestones, hinting at the untold stories that lay ahead.
The quiet in the western plaza was not the kind that follows a period of peace. Instead, it reflected a transformation—a place irrevocably altered by an unseen force, now poised in anticipation of what might come next.
The broken stone, the cracked facades, and the hole where the fountain had been were all part of that waiting. They were all parts of a picture that was still figuring out what it meant.
Apollo was on his knees in the middle of it, and he had been on his knees for longer than he had been tracking.
