Night fell too quickly.
It wasn't natural. The sun hadn't fully set, yet the streets were already drowning in shadow. Emergency lights painted the city in red and blue, their reflections trembling in broken windows and puddles left behind by burst pipes.
Aren sat on the cold pavement, his back against the wall of a closed convenience store.
He couldn't stop shaking.
The whisper was gone now. That was almost worse.
"Breathe," Mira said quietly, crouching beside him. "Slowly."
He tried. His lungs refused to listen.
Every sound felt too loud—the distant sirens, the crackle of damaged power lines, the murmur of people crying somewhere nearby.
"Someone's dead," Aren said suddenly.
Mira stiffened. "You don't know that."
"I do," he replied, his voice hollow. "It always feels like this when it happens."
She didn't argue.
They found the first body two blocks away.
The street had partially collapsed, swallowing half a bus into a jagged sinkhole. Emergency workers stood around it, frozen, unsure where to start.
Aren didn't need to look inside.
He already knew.
A woman lay near the edge of the collapse, her shopping bag spilled beside her. Cans of soup rolled across the cracked asphalt, dented but unopened.
She looked peaceful.
Too peaceful.
Her eyes were open, staring at the sky.
Aren's chest tightened.
"She was alive before the sound," he whispered.
Mira's gaze darkened. "How can you tell?"
"Because the Sky noticed her," he said. "Just for a moment."
Mira slowly stood. "That's not a gift."
"I know."
A child screamed somewhere behind them.
Aren flinched violently.
The second death was louder.
A man trapped beneath fallen debris called out for help. His voice echoed between buildings, desperate, growing weaker with every attempt.
People gathered. Some tried to lift the rubble. Others just watched.
The sky rumbled softly above them.
Aren felt it again—the pressure, the attention.
"Don't," he whispered under his breath. "Please don't."
The whisper answered, faint and distant.
"Balance…"
The rubble shifted.
Not enough to free the man.
Just enough to silence him.
When the dust settled, no one spoke.
A woman dropped to her knees, sobbing. Someone covered the body with a jacket far too small to matter.
Aren turned away, nausea rising in his throat.
Mira grabbed his arm tightly. "Don't let it hear you react."
"People are dying," he said, his voice breaking. "It's choosing when to stop."
"No," Mira replied coldly. "It's choosing when not to."
They moved deeper into the city, where the lights had completely failed.
Shadows pooled unnaturally in corners. Doors hung open. Phones lay abandoned on sidewalks, screens cracked, final messages unsent.
In an apartment building with its side torn open, Aren saw a room exposed to the street.
A dinner table. Two plates. Steam long gone.
A teenage boy lay motionless on the floor, his hand still reaching toward his phone.
The screen was lit.
Mom: I'm almost home.
Aren couldn't look anymore.
His knees buckled, and this time Mira couldn't stop him from falling.
"I hear it everywhere," he whispered, pressing his hands to his ears. "It's not screaming anymore. It's… listening."
Mira knelt beside him, her expression unreadable.
"This is why we stayed quiet," she said softly. "For three years."
"Who's we?" Aren demanded weakly.
She hesitated.
"People who survived the first silence," she said. "People who learned what happens when the Sky remembers you exist."
Above them, the clouds twisted slowly, patiently.
Aren felt a terrible certainty settle in his chest.
"This isn't a disaster," he said. "It's a correction."
Mira met his eyes.
"Yes."
A distant siren cut out abruptly.
Then another.
One by one, the city fell silent—not because the Sky demanded it…
…but because there was no one left to make noise.
Aren squeezed his eyes shut as the whisper brushed against his thoughts one last time.
"Listener…"
He didn't answer.
But he knew now.
The Sky didn't need permission.
It had already begun counting