Mexico City
Late Summer 1847.
Mexico City was exhausted.
The city still stood strong beneath the mountain sky, its churches still towering proudly above crowded streets, its markets still alive with merchants shouting prices from morning until evening. Wagons rolled through the roads every day. Soldiers marched through plazas while workers continued repairing buildings and unloading supplies across the capital.
From the outside, the city looked alive.
Normal, even.
But anyone living there could feel the war now.
It was everywhere.
In the rising price of bread.
In the shortages of medicine.
In the long lines outside supply offices.
In the funeral processions moving quietly through the streets almost every day.
The war had not destroyed Mexico City physically.
But it had worn the spirit of the city down little by little.
