The Promise

The bells should toll, but instead they flicker like static, pulsing with the rhythm of a broken signal.

Down below, the streets stretch endlessly in two colors — one painted in red light, the other in blue. They weave together, then split again, like veins through a dying heart. People walk each side, never crossing, their faces blurred as if erased by smoke.

Billboards speak with mouths that aren’t theirs. Eyes on the screens blink too slowly, dripping ink instead of tears. Words crawl across them in bold letters — TRUST US — before glitching into silence.

A single figure drifts through the center, barefoot, leaving prints that glow faintly before fading away. His reflection follows him in the glass, but it doesn’t match his steps. It moves ahead of him, reaching toward something unseen.

A wind sweeps in, carrying scraps of paper — ballots, torn headlines, fragments of slogans. They whirl like confetti in a parade no one came to watch.

In the distance, a marble building splits down the middle. Its pillars crumble, but inside burns a strange golden light. From its doorway emerges a woman holding a candle. The flame doesn’t flicker, even though the wind howls like sirens.

The figure stops. Around him, the crowd is faceless, locked in motion like mannequins. Yet the candle’s glow cuts through the dark, scattering long shadows across the broken streets.

He steps forward. Each movement feels like walking against water, heavy, slow. His reflection breaks free, no longer tied to him, and it whispers without sound: Stand. Stay. Believe.

When he reaches her, the city dissolves. The billboards melt, the towers fall into dust, the streets of red and blue fade to gray. Only the flame remains — a trembling star in endless night.

It isn’t a promise. It isn’t salvation.

It’s just light.

Fragile, but real.