They don’t walk far before the weight of the silence finally lands.
The Canterbury disappears behind them, swallowed by the relentless surge of traffic and distance, but the feeling doesn’t leave. It clings to Amelia’s chest like cold air trapped under her skin, stagnant and heavy. Her hands are still shaking—not from the acute spikes of fear anymore, but from the hollow aftermath. It is the kind of tremor that comes only after you realize something is truly over, and the bridges behind you are nothing but ash.
Iris walks beside her in a silence that feels like a physical barrier. Her jaw is set so tight it looks like stone, her eyes fixed straight ahead on a horizon she can't quite see. She hasn’t cried. Not yet. Iris never does right away; she stores her pain like a mounting debt and
