Beneath the dying sun of mid-December, streets twisted into a forgotten tableau. Solstice whispers rode the cold breeze, weaving through hollow buildings with missing bricks. The world seemed to hold its breath, waiting for a celestial cue to continue its long-lost script.
Jack stood atop the crumbling stairwell of what had once been a vibrant coffee shop, its widowpane eyes now clouded and obscured. "In the eclipse," he murmured, "the world finds solace." His voice echoed against the shattered tiles, the scent of stagnant coffee creasing the air around him.
The neighborhood had grown entropic, memories clinging to the walls like decaying wallpaper. Children played hide and seek in the shadows, their laughter tinged with discovery and dare. The adults, an echo, never venturing past cracked thresholds, heard only through whispers wafted on dusk's gentle push.
What once was a thriving core now resembled a dream of damp earth and rust. Rust steel, rust foliage, rust memories. Solstice in the belly of eclipses, where families once spun warmth, now echoed absence and the gentle decay of routine.
A voice from behind, startling in its clarity, called his name. It was Sarah, her silhouette a specter against the dim sky. "What's left of us when the eclipse ends?" she asked, her tone threading curiosity through the fabric of silence.