The fire trucks came first.
Then the medics.
Then the silence.
Smoke curled above the cathedral ruins like the ghost of a forgotten god.
Alex lay on a stretcher, barely conscious, blood seeping through gauze. His shirt was gone. His ribs bruised. A fresh bullet wound wept against his side.
Linda sat beside him in the ambulance, her wedding gown in tatters, stained with ash and blood.
She hadn't spoken since they pulled him from the pews.
Now, as the medic checked his vitals, Alex turned his head weakly toward her.
“I thought you left," he whispered.
“I almost did."
He smiled faintly. “You should have."
She reached out—hesitated—then touched his hand.
“You lost too much blood."
“So did you."
They both chuckled, bitter and breathless.
The medic leaned over. “He needs to rest."
