The man in the black trench coat moved through the shattered remnants of Belfast as though the destruction was beneath his notice.
Rain had begun to fall, a fine mist that thickened into a steady downpour, drenching the crumbling cobblestones beneath his boots.
His wide-brimmed hat shielded his face from view, the water dripping from its edges like a veil of shadows as he walked.
The torn remnants of what had once been a city whispered around him—shattered cobblestones, broken carriages lying abandoned, their wood rotted and their iron frames bent and twisted by time and decay.
It was a city of ruins. Stone buildings that had stood for centuries now lay in heaps of rubble, their skeletons exposed to the unrelenting rain.
Torn banners, symbols of a forgotten time, hung limply from sagging arches, their colors faded to nothingness.
Belfast had been consumed by an age of darkness, and now, only ghosts seemed to walk its streets.
