The horns.

The last echo of a once triumphant battle cry, now reduced to a dying hymn of a failed nation. The air is filled with the haunting melody that comes after. The melody is a chill, one that isn't just from the winter. Not just from the snow and slush. Not just from the sea breeze. Not even from the looming sense of unending dread, silence, and nothingness contained within that one singular spot. No.

The chill is the dying gasp of thousands. It’s the city's silent sigh of resignation at its fate. The sound a child makes when their innocence is lost. It is the chill that comes when dreams die. And brother, the dream of Revachol died long ago. It’s as dead as disco, baby.

For those of us with vast oceanic souls.