Cold Ground

The sirens sliced through the night. The rain had not yet stopped. The asphalt absorbed the faint glow of the streetlights; the street was draped in its own darkness. Yellow police tape stretched to the back door of an abandoned building. Everyone was silent. Conversations hovered on the verge of whispers. The metallic scent in the air indicated the body had just been warm when it died.

A car stopped at the end of the street. The door creaked open.

Detective Nathaniel Reed—tall, composed, and cold—stepped out. His long coat, worn over a dark grey suit, was immaculate in contrast to the filth of the street. He walked quietly, his eyes alert, yet his gaze was numb from years of habit, his face unreadable.

Walking beside him was a young woman, quickening her steps. Agent Claire Donovan—recently assigned to the Federal Crimes Unit, sharp and headstrong, but still not fully aware of the dark side of her job; her curiosity often led her to walk into fire without a shield.

The body was found in a narrow gap between two brick walls, beside the trash bins. Its back pressed against the wall, its head tilted to the side, and hands crossed over its stomach. The face was familiar—it was journalist Michael Bennett.

Reed knelt down. Without showing any sign of surprise, he examined the body. Michael had recently been working on a dangerous file. He had been gathering documents on Vincent “Vulture” Moretti, one of the most powerful names in the city’s underworld. A man so feared that even the police department was hesitant to mention his name.

This death was no accident. It was clearly a message.

Claire approached, pulling out her notepad. In a low voice, she asked:

— Do you think this is his work?

Reed slowly shook his head, still focused on the body.

— If not, then someone daring enough to imitate him has emerged. But I don’t believe in coincidences, Claire.

The rain picked up again. The sky rumbled. The blood on the pavement hadn’t even dried yet. And the deep silence of the street was the herald of a coming storm.

The night was filled with silence. Occasionally, the rain tapped gently on the window, reminding of its presence; then everything would fall back into quiet. By the first light of dawn, this silence turned into a serene calm, woven with a sense of peace.

The rain that had fallen relentlessly for days finally stopped. New York, that morning, was quieter than ever. The streets were covered in a dull tone, the sidewalks shining as if they were coated in steel from the wetness; a cold light filtered across the city’s weary face. Thin vapor rose from the asphalt, swirling like a mist close to the ground. The sky was dull and lifeless; there was no color, no hope—only grey.

When Eren Valez opened his eyes, there was dim light in the room. His eyelids were still heavy; he hovered between sleep and wakefulness. The pale glow of the computer screen cast a dull reflection on his face. Unknowingly, he had fallen asleep at his desk while working. Beside the screen, a notepad was left open, and a half-drunk coffee cup sat, cold.

The room wasn’t large, but it was tidy. The shelves were filled with books, and on one of the pale walls, a black-and-white city poster hung—foggy street lamps and an old tram passing between the rails... And by the window, the morning light slowly streamed in, following the rain.

His dark brown hair was slightly messy. A few days’ worth of stubble gave him an expression older than his years. His eyes, somewhere between grey and hazel, were not sharp but had depth. He was one of those whose silence spoke louder than words. His simple white hoodie blended well with his composed posture; understated yet subtly striking in its simplicity.

He grabbed his bag. Inside were only a small notepad, two pens, and an old phone. He glanced in the mirror.

“You’re still here,” he whispered to himself.

He paused for a moment. Reaching into his right pocket, his fingers moved slowly as if searching for a familiar item. Finally, he pulled out a black bracelet. On the inside, a small metal plate—worn over time but still legible. It had been his mother’s.

He stared at the bracelet for a while. As his fingers touched the cold metal, a hidden memory stirred. But now, neither his mother nor that childhood remained.

He crouched as he descended the stairs, adjusting his shoelace.

He lived in Harlem. These streets had seen more wear and tear, had witnessed more than they should.

When he stepped outside, the cold ground that stuck to the soles of his shoes made him feel as though he didn’t belong to the city. The streetlights, despite the daylight, hadn’t turned off. The rain didn’t cleanse the city; it only suffocated it more.

Eren put on his headphones. The faint Quran recitation playing. His steps were calm. Today,his steps were once again leading him to the mosque.

As he reached the mosque street, the minaret stretched into the grey clouds. When he entered through the door, warmth enveloped him.

There was a small congregation. Some were silently praying, others just sitting. Eren moved to a corner. He prayed two rakats. When he reached sujood, a peace surrounded his heart, one so deep that he didn’t want to leave. It was a peace that could only be found there.

After finishing his prayer, his eyes fixed on a distant point. His mind wandered far away. Perhaps he was waiting for something, or perhaps just seeking tranquility.

When he left the mosque, the rain started again. The sky had silently begun to weep. Some would hate this weather, others would embrace it with love. Eren slightly tilted his head up. He looked at the grey sky, hanging over Manhattan like a rusty sign. He opened his palms, watching the raindrops fall gently. He took a deep breath. The city’s fatigue hung in the humid air.

He spoke softly to himself:

“Cry with the rain so it can wipe your tears away. Those like me, who are alone, love the rain... Maybe only those who are alone understand me. But what does it matter? The words you say to yourself never write a sentence in history.”

He slowly descended the stone steps. As he tied his shoes, he turned his head to the left. There, in the street, a young woman with a red umbrella stared at him. She looked away a moment later. Eren looked closely; there was something familiar in her eyes, but he couldn’t place it.

He adjusted his collar, pulled his hoodie over his head, and began to walk again.