[Narrated by one who has witnessed the moment when ordinary days become the last normal memory people will ever possess, who knows that catastrophe announces itself in tremors before the breaking, who understands that hell arrives not with trumpets but with silence before the screaming starts]
In the outer districts, the market breathed.
It was a living thing. Merchants called their wares, bread, furs, winter roots with the rhythm of a well-practiced heart. Children wove between stalls, their laughter the sound of life insisting on itself. Guards stood bored at their posts, dreaming of nothing but warmth and quiet.
Then the first tremor.
A whisper. A sigh beneath the stones. Most didn't notice. Those who did glanced down, shrugged, and returned to their haggling.
The second tremor was a punch.
