Silence, once broken, cannot be unmade. It leaves echoes.
The white sand of the arena caught the late afternoon light, footprints and scuff marks telling a story that words could not capture. Officials moved with uncertain purpose, their authority suddenly provisional. The perimeter, once tight with security, now leaked like a sieve as spectators filtered out—some hurrying away, others lingering, caught in the gravity of what they had witnessed.
Guild administrators huddled near their pavilion, voices rising and falling in panicked waves. One of them—a portly man with medallions of office clinking against his chest—finally threw up his hands.
"This exhibition is officially terminated!" he announced, his voice cracking. "By order of the Meridian Guild of Forms, all sanctioned demonstrations are hereby disbanded!"
The pronouncement fell flat, an irrelevant formality. The real performance had already happened, and it hadn't been on any schedule.
