The darkest night falls. The sun fires its last fleeting rays before retreating beyond the horizon. Take one last glance at a wristwatch before the slightly reflective surface seals the sight away. Across the city blinded men stumble from factories into stone-cold streets, seeking, seeking nothing. I, among them, pick through the rubble of broken homes, seeking, seeking… something. A stone to shore up a wall, a busted chair, shrapnel. I find a door, seemingly intact, in spite of its busted frame laying defeated on the street.

The all-annihilating stillness of Verdunkeln snakes its way through the city, stifling all that once was or ever could have been. The wardens are long gone now, shipped East where their bodies were churned apart by the unstoppable juggernaut, edging ever closer. But Churchill’s Pirates flew in from the West, Koventrieren in every street they caressed.

The wail of the banshee splits the night, filling empty streets with its uncontained horror. The searchlights cut fiery beams into the frozen sky, tendrils of fog descending, choking. A final volley of activity; those that still cared scurrying into half-beaten bunkers, though many wait fatalistically in the street. The city plays a symphony, the dull roar of cannons raised skywards seeming like drums, while the tinny whir of distant motors could pass as untuned violins if this were another place, another time.

The wail of the banshee reaches a fever pitch, as though it might chase away the Pirates. The roaring whisper of cold steel intermingles with hot lead, as the street is scored with fountains of sparks. The banshee runs out of breath; the cannons now empty. The only sound is the whistling of the winter air. The darkest night falls.