The smell of lemons was there, mingled with the scent of singed wool. I was the only one who noticed the latter—or at least, the only one allowing my olfactory cells to relay the truth to my brain. The rest were seated around the heavy oak dining table, occupied with the grotesque precision of deboning their whitefish.

​

When the first blow struck, the earth beneath us shuddered like the skin of a drum. The red wine in Uncle Naser’s glass surged, a single drop spilling onto the white linen tablecloth. Without looking up, he picked up a napkin and dabbed at the stain with a hollow, practiced calm. "These municipal trucks have no shame," he said. "They must have hit that pothole at the entrance of the alley again."

​

I wiped the blood from the corner of my lip with the back of my hand. It tasted of copper. Outside, barely ten meters from the floor-to-ceiling parlor window, the sky had bruised. Something resembling a fleshy, throbbing pillar had pierced through the clouds, leaning with a heavy, rhythmic grace as it crushed the ancient sycamores in the yard. The sound of splintering branches was too loud to be mistaken for a pothole or a truck.

​

My mother tapped her spoon against the platter of kuku and said, "By the way, did you hear Mrs. Akbari’s daughter finally got her visa? They say she’s moving to Norway. It’s terribly cold there, isn't it?"

​

My father nodded in agreement. He was facing the window. He was watching as that viscous mass brought down the greenhouse roof. The glass shattered with a deafening roar, a stray shard flying to strike our window, leaving a thin, web-like crack. A sharp pain twisted through my joints. It felt as if my own bones were being crushed under the weight of that thing outside.

​

In the corner of the room, Scofield, my little quail, was throwing himself violently against the bars of his cage. He was the only honest witness in that room. He saw that the world was ending.

​

I didn't scream. My throat was too constricted from the tension. I managed only a rasp: "Dad, the greenhouse collapsed. The sky... the sky has opened up." My father looked at me. His eyes were cold—hollowed out, like two deep pits in a plaster statue. "Sohrab, are you starting again?" he said. "It’s just the autumn wind. The greenhouse was old. Now eat your fish; it’s no good once it gets cold."

​

A scream echoed from the street. Prolonged and jagged. The kind of scream one lets out when they realize there is no turning back. My aunt delicately sprinkled salt over her salad. "The neighborhood cats have become so vicious lately. You can't get a wink of sleep."

​

I was suffocating. I pushed my chair back with a harsh scrape. For a moment, everyone stopped eating and looked at me. Not with fear, but with a grating sort of pity. As if I were a mental patient who had uttered a profanity during a sacred rite. I walked to the window. The earth had yawned open. A thick, crimson dust choked the street, and people... people were moving like dim shadows, umbrellas in hand, walking past the catastrophe. No one looked at the sky. No one reacted to the fleshy mass now devouring the neighbor's wall.

​

I turned back to the table. My mother was smiling as she poured tea for Uncle Naser. "It's ending," I said. "Everything is ending, and you’re talking about Norway?"

​

My grandfather wiped his mouth and said in a low, heavy voice, "Son, don't make life’s bitterness worse with these fantasies. Sit down. This year’s whitefish is perfectly salted."

​

The pain reached my brain. A vein in my forehead felt ready to burst. I realized then that they were right. The catastrophe wasn't that celestial pillar; the catastrophe was this collective agreement to remain blind. I picked up Scofield’s cage. The bird was no longer thrashing; he was huddled in a corner, watching me with black, beady eyes as if I, too, were part of this polished silence.

​

I opened the cage door. Scofield did not hesitate. He hopped out and vanished into the crimson dust beyond the window. I returned to my seat. I felt no more pain. A numbness, like a potent sedative, had started at my fingertips and was conquering my heart.

​

I picked up my spoon. I flaked off a piece of the fish. It tasted of ash. It tasted of rubble. I looked at my mother, forced a smile, and said, "You’re right... Norway is very cold. Mrs. Akbari’s daughter will surely be lonely there."

​

The sound of the neighboring house collapsing grew louder, but the clinking of our spoons was louder still.