At precisely 08:12, the city inhaled.
No sirens announced it. No screens flickered with warning.
The morning simply paused.
On a crowded transit platform, a man lifted his coffee and hesitated, unsure why his hand had stopped halfway to his mouth.
Three hundred floors above him, a woman standing barefoot on temperature-regulated marble felt a sudden, luxurious clarity settle behind her eyes — like the moment after a perfect night’s sleep.
In a primary classroom, a boy forgot the word he had been reading aloud. It returned to him a second later, thinner somehow, but usable.
Traffic continued.
Conversations resumed.
The city exhaled.