The next morning it was as though the past seventy-two hours simply hadn’t happened. It was as though only she could remember the feeling of the fire that swept the city beating against her, flowing around her, burning everything made by man. Everyone just carried on as though nothing had happened. Or rather, as though the glow-in-the-dark rubble was simply what had always been.

Fingers of deep green and a brilliant blue began to claw their way across the sky. A single tear rolled down a dusty cheek, the trail shining in the early morning sun.

How much of today would they permit her to remember come morning? She climbed down from the lintel, which had served as her morning seat, and began to hike towards the only building which, against all odds, survived the conflagration. Two towers reaching into the heavens, which would become the symbol of hope for a new tomorrow. Two towers, which would serve as a beacon for those who could remember.