Fear leaves a record
At 02:17 on a rain-darkened October morning, the harbor lamps went out one by one. By dawn, fishing boats had washed against the seawall, their radios repeating the same clipped report: something vast had crossed the water. The city did not need a name yet. It had already learned the shape of fear.
Two weeks later, I walked the eastern wards with a notebook and a borrowed camera. Windows were patched with newspaper; school desks stood beneath blankets of dust. People spoke less about the silhouette than the silence after it—the moment when every official voice stopped, and ordinary witnesses became the archive.