It started with the pigeons.
In Trafalgar Square, tourists snapped photos as the birds suddenly froze mid-flight—wings outstretched, eyes glassy. Then, one by one, they dropped like stones.
A child reached for one.
Her hand passed through it.
Not like a ghost. Like it had never been there at all.
Then the statues moved.
Nelson's Column groaned. Stone cracked. Dust rained onto the crowd below as the admiral turned his head—slowly, deliberately—and pointed south.
Screams erupted.
But the phones didn't work. No signal. No emergency calls. Even the streetlights flickered… then burned with open flame.
Gas lamps.
London was changing.
Not collapsing.
Rewriting.
In Paris, the Eiffel Tower didn't fall.
It unbuilt itself.
Rivet by rivet, beam by beam, it folded backward into the sky like a film in reverse—until only a grassy hill remained where it once stood. Tourists blinked. Some remembered it. Most didn't.
A man in a suit checked his watch. It showed 3:17 PM.
