by Simpforsyntax
A quiet life ends at a bus stop. Michael wakes up the next morning with no explanation and no mark where there should be one. The city carries on as usual, but the news doesn’t. Reports break of people moving faster than sight, of fires sparked by empty hands, of names spreading faster than the stories behind them. By nightfall, the street looks the same. The light still turns green. And someone is waiting across the road.
