Danielle looked at the photograph in her hand. The four of them, frozen in 1973. “How many times, Dom?”
“Do what?” Danielle asked.
Dom gestured to the window. Below, the town was beginning to unravel. Houses folded into themselves. People froze mid-step. The sky wasn’t just bruised now—it was tearing. chantal danielle anom dom
Dom stood in the clock tower, his hand on a brass lever that shouldn’t exist in a building from 1902. He looked tired. Not cruel. Just tired. Danielle looked at the photograph in her hand
“Save us from what?” Chantal demanded. frozen in 1973. “How many times
Dom said nothing. He just looked at his hands—no longer holding a lever—and wept, not from grief, but from the strange, unbearable relief of letting go.