The first thing anyone noticed was the quiet.
It wasn't peace — it was the kind of quiet that comes after a scream, when the air still tastes of fear and the body hasn't realized the danger is over.
The harbor lay in ruins. The seawall was nothing more than jagged teeth of stone. The great piers had been splintered into driftwood, scattered across the streets. Whole districts stood knee-deep in brackish water. And the Bastion — the pride of the city — bore a jagged scar down its seaward face, as though the ocean had tried to peel it open.
People emerged slowly from the higher streets, eyes wide, ears straining for the sound of another wave. Children clung to their parents. Merchants stared hollow-eyed at the waterlogged remains of their stalls.
There were no gulls.
Even the scavengers of the sky had fled.
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