The Night ended slowly.
It did not vanish in a flash, nor did it dissipate with any grand declaration. Instead, it peeled itself off the Dying City like an old, stubborn skin that faded away without protest.
The mist that had coked the city for hours began to retreat.
It did not vanish.
It just became thin.
Pale, smoke-like tendrils coiled back into the cracks of broken buildings and shattered streets. The murky white fog clung a moment longer to shattered rooftops and crumbling spires before it, too, withdrew into silence.
The haunting cries of the night faded until they became whispers, ghostly murmurs that drifted away like forgotten prayers.
Then, the stars returned.
