By dawn, the fire’s fury had dimmed to a stubborn, sullen glow, and the city it had torn through felt like a rough sketch of its former self. Cafes, bus stops, and familiar corners were reduced to silhouettes of twisted metal and scorched brick. People moved as if every step might disturb the thin, fragile layer of control they’d scraped together. Their eyes kept drifting to the horizon, searching for anyone they hadn’t yet seen, rehearsing the names they were afraid to speak out loud.

Yet in that stripped-down landscape, something quieter and more durable emerged. A neighbor’s extension cord snaked across three driveways to power a stranger’s oxygen machine. A restaurant with shattered windows handed out food from coolers. Volunteers scribbled messages on cardboard—“Have room for 2,” “Charging phones here”—and taped them to lamp posts. Grief and shock didn’t vanish, but they were threaded with a new, stubborn vow: if the city was going to be rebuilt at all, it would be rebuilt with everyone’s hands on the same, trembling foundation.