The falling ash was not new to Norval.
Every night, as the clock inched toward midnight, the city grew quiet.
Windows closed. Exterior lights turned off. Conversations softened.
It was as if the entire city was bracing for something it refused to name.
Lian never closed her window.
She would sit at the edge of her bed, watching the gray sky, waiting for the air to change. There was always a moment before it began — a heavy stillness, like the world holding its breath.
Then it fell.
Fine silver particles drifting slowly downward. Not rain. Not snow. Something in between. They shimmered faintly before dimming, settling over rooftops like the dust of something burned long ago.
Lian stretched her hand into the night.
A single piece of ash landed in her palm.
It wasn't hot.
It wasn't cold.
It felt like it remembered heat.
She stared at it and whispered, "Where do you come from?"
That was when she felt it.
Not a sound.
Not movement.
Just the unmistakable sensation of being watched.
She turned.
Her room was empty.
But her shadow on the wall… did not move with her.
It lagged — just slightly.
She blinked.
It snapped back into place.
The next morning, news spread quickly:
A man from the northern district had disappeared.
No broken doors. No forced windows.
Only a thick layer of ash inside his bedroom.
As always, people said the same phrase:
"He burned without fire."
Lian never believed that.
Because the ash in her hand the night before had shown her something.
A vision.
A city.
Not Norval — not the one she knew.
Taller towers.
A darker sky.
A broken wall.
And at the top of that wall…
someone watching her.