The sky didn’t crack. It rippled —like a stone dropped into a still pond. And from that invisible wound, shapes began to fall. Not ships. Not monsters. People. Thousands of them, tumbling through the air as if spat out by the atmosphere itself. They landed hard on wet pavement, on parked cars, on the dome of the old cathedral. They wore clothes from every decade: flapper dresses, bell-bottoms, pinstripe suits, neon windbreakers. Some gasped awake. Others just lay still.
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