But the silence was a heavy thing. It wasn't the peaceful silence of the countryside; it was an expectant silence, like the city was holding its breath, waiting for the actors to return to the stage.
One evening, as the flare fizzled out and the darkness rushed back in, Thomas turned to leave. But then, he saw it.
At twenty-two, Thomas had become the accidental king of a concrete empire. He lived in a penthouse on Park Avenue—not because he owned it, but because the door had been unlocked and the view of the Chrysler Building was unparalleled. The Only Living Boy in New York
His days followed a surreal, quiet logic. He spent his mornings "shopping," which mostly involved breaking the silence of high-end grocery stores to find canned goods that hadn't expired. He’d walk through the middle of Broadway, kicking a soccer ball for blocks without ever having to look for cars.
He began a ritual. Every night at dusk, he went to the top of the Empire State Building with a high-powered marine flare. He would stand on the observation deck, the wind whipping his hair, and fire a streak of brilliant crimson into the indigo sky. He would watch it arc over the silent skyscrapers, a desperate comma in a finished sentence. But the silence was a heavy thing
She smiled, a small, fragile thing that outshone the skyline. "I'm Sarah. Want to help me burn the September issue? It's surprisingly warm."
Thomas stopped, his chest heaving. The crushing weight of the silent city seemed to lift, replaced by the simple, terrifying reality of another person. He wasn't the only living boy in New York anymore. He was just a neighbor. "I'm Thomas," he managed to say. But then, he saw it
"You're late," she said, her voice thin but steady. "I’ve been lighting this fire for three nights."