The fog was thick, sticky, like sweat that couldn't be wiped away.
Gray City had no trees, no mountains, no sea. Only concrete, smoke, and silence. It had been the government's first attempt to modernize a rural city during the Republic, but the result was a sad, monotonous, almost ghostly urban landscape. Its name had been earned on its own merits. No birds sang. There were no laughs echoing from the balconies. Only sighs bounced off abandoned buildings, whispering memories of a past no one wanted to remember.
Pablo arrived on the restored monorail, and the first thing he noticed was the lack of color. Everything—even the sky—seemed muted, as if someone had drained life from every surface. He was accompanied by Einar, an expert urban designer, and Minae, a young teacher who had grown up in this city and remembered it before its fall. The station still had residual power, flickering like a dying candle.
—This city… didn't die from bombs —Minae said in a thin voice—. It died from neglect.
Pablo nodded as he stepped off the monorail. His boots crunched on the broken concrete, and the echo faded into the fog. Einar reviewed his notes on an old tablet, taking measurements and calculating power routes.
—We need to start with the infrastructure —Einar said—. The monorail will only connect to Trasporium if the power panels and generators work. But first… we have to do something about the emptiness this city feels.
—That emptiness —Minae interjected— isn't just the city's. It's ours. We grew up here with fear, with silence. Every street reminds me of my parents' despair.
Pablo looked toward the gray horizon, where buildings blended into the fog.
—Then we don't just rebuild concrete and cables —he said—. We rebuild memory. We rebuild soul.
⸻
The plans were ambitious: revive the cultural center, activate solar energy networks, enable the new monorail, and most importantly, recover the city's soul. But Gray City held more than silence.
During an inspection of the underground, they discovered a hidden access beneath the central city hall. The stairs descended into the damp abyss of oblivion. Opening the door, a smell of metal and old dust mixed with something else, something that made Pablo's skin tingle.
Reinforced glass, rusted screens, and tangled cables formed a labyrinth. And in the middle of that place, bodies. Dozens of bodies. Some were children, others elderly. All were connected to pods like incubators. On the ceiling, a forgotten logo still faintly glowed: "Project Rebirth."
—No… it can't be —Minae whispered, her voice breaking—. My parents worked here. They said it was a hospital.
Pablo approached the files with Einar. He reviewed the data with steady hands, frowning. It was not a hospital. It was an experimental center… created by Marcus, the Pillar of Technology.
"Emotions are unnecessary. Total control is only possible if the soul is suppressed."
"Citizens will be reprogrammed to love order."
"And Gray City will be the perfect experiment."
The silence in the room grew even heavier. Each pod seemed to breathe on its own, a heartbeat frozen in time.
—They called it an "experiment" —Einar said, barely containing his rage—. But this… this is monstrous.
—Monstrous is an understatement —Pablo said, gently touching the glass of a pod—. Someone decided that suppressing the humanity of these children and elderly was progress. And we are here to fix that.
⸻
In that room, the city's soul had been killed. That's why there were no colors. That's why there were no laughs. Humanity had been turned off to see if it could be rebooted.
Pablo ordered the room closed and sealed. The bodies were moved to a dignified place and buried with silent ceremonies. Minae's tears fell as she placed flowers on each pod, as if awakening a memory that had never existed.
Then he summoned the remaining citizens and spoke from the central theater, whose walls still smelled of dampness and accumulated dust.
—Gray City is not a shadow —he said, his voice firm, cutting through the silence—. It's a scar. And every scar tells a story. A story we are going to rewrite.
—Rewrite? —an elderly woman asked, leaning on a cane—. How do we do that?
—With memory —Pablo replied—. With art, music, education, and love. With everything that was taken from us. This city will live again.
⸻
New lights were installed, solar panels that colored the sky at sunset, and the theater was restored by artists who returned from Fortis and Hospitale. Murals covered gray walls with bursts of color: trees that never existed, birds that never flew there, portraits of smiling former citizens. Films were projected for the first time in over eighty years, filling the air with shared laughter and tears.
—I can't believe it… —Minae whispered, looking at a mural of children playing under a tree—. This… this is my city again.
Pablo took her hand, and in silence, they walked through the newly restored corridors of the theater.
—The streets will speak again —he said—. But we must remember what happened, so it never happens again.
—And if the Pillars awaken? —Minae asked, gripping his hand—. If they come demanding control again?
—Then we will teach them —Pablo replied— that true power is not in destruction, but in sowing.
⸻
For weeks, the citizens participated in the reconstruction: repairing streets, painting facades, organizing markets and workshops. The first music band returned to play in the central square. Children learned to run among gardens that had been dead for decades. The city gradually regained its rhythm.
One afternoon, while Pablo supervised the installation of solar panels, a group of young people ran toward him.
—Look! —one shouted, pointing to a mural now reflecting the sunset light—. There's color!
—Yes —Pablo said, smiling—. Color and hope. Never forget that this is what we are building together.
⸻
That night, under a partially clear sky, Pablo and Minae walked among the new greenhouses and plazas that already vibrated with life. A small bird crossed the gray sky, landing on a restored lamppost.
—Life is returning —Minae said, tears glistening in her eyes—. What will happen if the Pillars come back?
—Then —Pablo said, gently touching a newly planted tree— we will show them that Gray City no longer belongs to fear, but to hope.
From the top of the hill, the city seemed to burn…
Not from war,
but from life.
Days later, while supervising the restored fields and parks, a child handed Pablo an old notebook.
—My grandfather said memories are what matter —the child said innocently.
Pablo took the notebook and opened it. The first page read: "They are coming." He turned to see the child, but he had vanished.
—But what?… —Pablo muttered, confused.
The murmur of the citizens blended with the night breeze, like a silent chorus announcing that the city was breathing again… or so it seemed.
⸻