I didn’t leave the house for a long time after that. Not because I was scared. Because everything felt empty.
The rooms felt bigger without her. Not in size. In silence.
Her cup was still on the table. Her shoes were still near the door. Her scarf was still hanging on the chair. But the meaning was gone.
The house felt like a shell that forgot what it was holding.
Outside, the tall shapes still stood in the streets.
Same corners.
Same shadows.
Same quiet pressure.
They didn’t rush anymore. They didn’t need to.
The city already felt tired.
I started noticing something new, though. Not in the shapes. In the air.
Where I stayed longer, the space felt firmer. Where I sat quietly, the pressure felt weaker. Where I didn’t look away, the world felt less thin.
Not safe.
Just less broken.
One afternoon, I sat near the front door for hours. Not doing anything. Just breathing. Just existing.
The shape across the street didn’t move. It leaned forward a little. Then stopped. Like it hit something it couldn’t pass. That scared me. Not because it moved. Because it didn’t.
It meant I was doing something without touching anything. It wasn’t about strength. It was about presence.
That night, I walked outside for the first time. No bag. No plan. Just the street and the shadows.
The air felt heavy like always. But it didn’t crush me.
Two shapes stood near the broken shop. They didn’t turn. They didn’t react.
I stood there. Staring. Not angry. Not afraid. Just present.
The space around me stopped feeling thin. Not strong. Just stable.
The shapes leaned slightly. Then froze. Like they were pushing against something invisible.
My head hurt. My chest felt tight. But the street didn’t bend.
For the first time since everything started, the world stayed still.
People were hiding in houses. Watching from broken windows. They saw it too.
The shapes not moving. The street not breaking. Nothing exploding. Just… stopping.
Someone whispered my name from a nearby house.
I didn’t look. I didn’t move. I stayed where I was. Holding the space.
When I stepped back, the air shifted again.
The shapes relaxed. The street felt thin. That scared me more than anything. It meant the stability came from me.
Not the place.
Not the city.
Me.
Later, near the old market, I tried again.
The ground there was cracked. Stalls were burned. Metal sheets hung loose like tired skin.
Three shapes stood near the entrance. They didn’t rush. They never rushed.
I walked between them.
Slow.
My hands were shaking. My legs felt weak. But I didn’t stop.
The air around me felt tighter. Like it was trying to push me out.
I stayed.
The pressure fought back. But it didn’t win.
The space held.
People watched from behind broken shutters.
Some cried. Some just stared. Nobody said anything.
The shapes leaned. Then stopped.
The market didn’t collapse. The sky didn’t stretch. The ground didn’t crack further. The city stayed standing.
Only because I stood there.
I didn’t feel powerful. I felt tired. Like I was holding something heavy with my hands. But my hands weren’t touching anything.
When I left, the pressure returned slowly. Not all at once. Like water filling an empty space.
That night, I sat on the roof again.
The city was dark. Not quiet. Just wounded.
Smoke still rose from far away buildings. Sirens cried somewhere in the distance.
The shapes stood everywhere.
Watching.
Waiting.
I thought about my mother. About how she held her bag like it mattered. About how she stepped forward without knowing why. About how the pressure took her like she was nothing.
My chest hurt. Not sharp pain. Heavy pain. Like something was pressing from inside.
I stayed on the roof until the sky changed color.
Not sunrise.
Just lighter darkness.
The city looked smaller in the morning.
Not in size.
In strength.
The buildings felt closer together.
The air felt tired.
I walked to the school. The gate was broken. The yard was empty.
No shouting.
No footsteps.
Just wind and dust.
Arun’s desk was still there. But the room felt wrong. Like it had been emptied twice.
I sat in his seat for a while.
Not for him.
For the quiet.
The pressure tried to enter the room. It always tried. But it couldn’t settle. Not while I was there.
The walls didn’t crack. The ceiling didn’t bend. The space held.
I stood up and left.
The city felt different now.
Not safer.
Just responsive.
Where I stood, the world resisted. Where I left, the world weakened.
I realized something else too.
They weren’t afraid of me. They were learning. They watched how long I stayed. How I breathed. How I focused.
They didn’t rush because they didn’t need to. Time worked for them. But space worked for me.
That afternoon, a shape moved closer than before. Not to attack.
To test.
The air pushed harder. My vision blurred. My knees shook. But I stayed.
The street didn’t collapse.
The shape leaned.
Then stopped.
I almost fell when the pressure eased. Not from strength. From exhaustion.
People started leaving their houses slowly. Not to run. To look. To understand.
They saw the shapes hesitate. They saw the space hold. They saw something different in the air.
Hope didn’t appear. Understanding did.
That night, I sat on the floor in my room. The wall where the drawing used to be was empty.
No sketches.
No warnings.
Just a blank space.
I pressed my hand against it. The air felt solid.
Not normal.
Just solid.
I closed my eyes. Not to escape. To focus.
The pressure pushed. The wall didn’t.
For the first time since she died, I felt like staying alive had meaning.
Not because I was winning. Because I was slowing something down.
The city wasn’t saved. The monsters weren’t gone. But the collapse wasn’t instant anymore.
I wasn’t a hero.
I wasn’t a weapon.
I was a delay.
And sometimes, delay is the only thing that keeps something from ending.
Outside, the shapes stood quietly. They didn’t move. They didn’t leave. They waited.
So did I.
