A change in the weather, grey skies, shifting winds, geese returning.
Cedar stumps through the streets of Bellona like there’s nothing left to prove, drained, free for the moment of wanderlust, itching feet. There are ghosts waiting under the street lamps, ghosts speaking in the roar of the jets passing too close above the towers of downtown. The trains run without drivers, and she sways, unbuffeted by insubstantial bodies. They run after her, shouting with leeched, underwater voices, grab at her with meaningless hands.
She is called to witness.
Bellona is edging toward cataclysm: silent poetry readings are held on darkened sidewalks, memories of fire lick at subway car windows, claw marks are gouged deep in her elms. Ghosts couple in doorways, mechanical, frantic, trying to ward off some unbearable inception.
There is a crater at the center of town, still warm. She sleeps there, empty of ghosts.