Collapse doesn’t always arrive with noise. Sometimes it tiptoes in, day after day, until everything that once felt solid dissolves. That year, time frayed and bled into itself. The streets emptied, the sky dimmed, and silence became a permanent resident.

With the world holding its breath, I wandered. Not in search of anything—but to witness. And what I found wasn’t absence, but a strange and aching kind of clarity. Stillness revealed what motion had always buried: cracked pavement glowing under streetlights, forgotten corners suddenly radiant in their uselessness, the beauty of a world paused mid-sentence.

the year the world disapeared