The city didn’t feel loud anymore. It felt tired. Not peaceful. Just worn out.
Buildings were still standing, but they leaned in strange ways. Shadows still moved, but slower. The air still pressed, but not as hard where I stayed.
People stayed inside now. Not hiding. Resting. Like everyone was waiting for something they didn’t want to see.
I walked past my old house again.
The door was half broken. The windows were dark.
There was another room in that house once. We stopped opening it after he died.
His shoes were still there for a long time. One was tilted to the side like he kicked it off in a hurry.
My brother never liked putting things away. He used to throw his bag on the chair and forget about it. My mother always complained.
Now the chair was empty.
Sometimes I still heard his laugh in my head. Not loud. Just a memory that stayed longer than it should.
We used to sit on the roof together. Not talking much. Just watching the sky.
He said the city looked different from up there. Smaller. Easier to understand.
I never believed him.
Now the city really did look small. And I finally understood what he meant.
I climbed the stairs slowly. The roof felt colder than before. Not in temperature. In feeling.
I stood where we used to sit.
The shapes were still there in the distance. Near tall buildings. Beside broken roads.
They didn’t move. They didn’t rush. They waited.
I stayed still. The air pushed a little. Then stopped.
The roof didn’t bend. The space didn’t thin. It held.
Not strong.
Just steady.
That feeling wasn’t new. I had felt it before. When I stayed. When I didn’t react. When I didn’t run.
The world behaved differently. I didn’t know why. I just knew it worked.
I went down and walked toward the hospital. Not because I had hope. Because there were still answers hiding there.
The halls were quiet. Lights flickered in slow patterns.
Arun sat near a window that didn’t open. He wasn’t drawing anymore. His hands stayed still on his lap. But his eyes were awake.
He looked at me like he already knew why I came.
“You’re still standing,” he said.
“So are you,” I replied.
His face didn’t change.
“They passed through me,” he said. “But they didn’t take everything.”
I sat on the floor nearby.
Not close.
Not far.
“They showed me where the wall was thin,” he said. “They didn’t care if I survived.”
I didn’t ask him anything. I didn’t need to. His voice carried enough truth already.
“They don’t like quiet,” he added after a while. “They don’t like stillness.”
I remembered the roof. The street. The market. The moments when the air stopped breaking.
Arun wasn’t teaching me. He was just confirming what I already felt.
I left the hospital without saying goodbye.
The city felt different now. Not safer. More understandable.
I started walking more. Not fast. Not with purpose. Just to feel where the air changed.
Some places felt thin. Like the world could tear if I pushed. Other places felt heavier.
Stronger.
Like they remembered how to stay solid.
I started staying longer in those places. Standing. Breathing. Letting the pressure press. And watching it slow down.
Not disappear.
Slow.
The shapes noticed. Not with fear. With curiosity.
They leaned sometimes. Then stopped. Like they were testing invisible walls.
That night, I went back to my house. To his room. The door still creaked the same way. His jacket was still hanging.
One sleeve folded in on itself.
I touched it.
It smelled like dust and old air.
He used to write random things in a small notebook. Not stories. Just thoughts.
I found it in the drawer. Most of it was nonsense. But one page was folded.
“Still water doesn’t move easily.”
He probably wrote it without thinking. But it felt right.
I kept the notebook. Not as a memory. As a reminder.
The city wasn’t about movement anymore. It was about holding.
The next day, I went to the tallest building that was still standing. Not to climb. Just to stand near it.
The air there felt thin. Unstable. The shapes were closer here.
Watching.
I stood still. My chest hurt. My head felt heavy. But the space didn’t break. The ground didn’t crack. The building didn’t bend.
The pressure slowed.
Not gone.
But tired.
People watched from windows. Not hopeful. Just curious.
I didn’t feel powerful. I felt like a weight. The kind that keeps things from moving.
I went home and started writing.
Not drawings.
Notes.
Where the air felt weak. Where it felt strong. Where the pressure slowed.
The city became a map. Not of roads. Of stability.
Night came quietly. No attacks. No screams. Just the shapes standing in the distance.
Waiting.
I sat on the floor and closed my eyes. Not to escape. To focus.
I thought about my mother. About my brother. About Arun. About the city that still hadn’t fallen.
Not yet.
I wasn’t ready. But I wasn’t blind anymore either. I knew where the world was weak. And I knew how to make it hold.
The climax wasn’t here yet. But it was coming. And this time, I wasn’t walking into it empty-handed.
