Seraph Hollow knelt in the rubble of New Xaxsuroth, wings folded tight against their back. Once they had been a guardian here, watching over thousands. Now the city lay broken, and only one soul mattered. They had failed Maya when she needed them most. The old temple district still stood at the city's edge. Seraph picked their way through fallen stones and twisted metal. They searched until they found what remained of the marble statue. The goddess of forgiveness gazed down through weathered features, her face cracked but still serene. Seraph pulled a small golden feather from their wing. It burned in their palm, glowing with celestial light. They placed it at the statue's broken feet. "I need to find her," Seraph whispered. "I need to make this right." The feather's light flickered once, then faded. Maya was out there somewhere, alive or dead. Seraph would search every corner of this ruined world until they could look her in the eyes again.

Seraph began at the only place that made sense—the city's record hall. The building sagged to one side, its roof caved in, but the basement archives might still hold something. They descended crumbling stairs into darkness. Their wings gave off a faint glow, enough to see by. Rows of filing cabinets stood water-damaged but intact. Seraph searched through soggy papers, looking for residential records, evacuation lists, anything with Maya's name. Their fingers trembled as they opened drawer after drawer. This was the first step. Find where she lived. Find where she might have gone. The work was slow and tedious, but Seraph didn't stop. By the time they emerged hours later, they clutched a wrinkled address card in their hand. It was something. It was a start. The address led them to the desert's edge, where an old observatory tower rose against the sky. Seraph climbed the iron stairs wrapped around its exterior. The telescope inside still pointed upward through the open dome. But what mattered was the logbook on the desk, thick with dust. They flipped through pages of star charts and weather notes. Then they found visitor records from before the city fell. Maya's name appeared three times, signed in careful handwriting. She had come here to look at the stars. Seraph traced the letters with one finger. The dates told them she had been here in the final weeks. Someone else might know where she went. This tower held answers, and Seraph would find them all.

Seraph stood in the observatory and studied the logbook again. Three visits meant Maya had cared about this place. Someone must have worked here who knew her. The city had a network of safe zones marked on old emergency maps. Seraph had seen them in the record hall. Those zones would have shelters, maybe survivors who remembered faces and names. The northern district held the largest one, built into an old transit station underground. Seraph folded the logbook page with Maya's signature and tucked it inside their robe. They climbed down the tower stairs as the sun dropped low. The path north would take two days on foot, but their wings could cut that in half. This world had broken apart, but its bones still stood. Roads led somewhere. Shelters held people. And people held memories. Seraph flew low over the ruins as dawn broke. The northern district appeared below, less damaged than the rest. Buildings still stood upright here. Streets remained clear enough to walk. Then they saw it—a brick wall covered in bright paint. The graffiti sprawled across the crumbling surface in bold letters: "Love me do." Someone had taken time to make this. Someone had believed things could get better. Seraph landed and touched the wall. Paint flaked under their fingers. This place still held hope, even after everything fell apart. If people could create this, they could remember one person's face. The transit station entrance waited three blocks away. Seraph walked the empty streets and found the stairs leading down. This shelter had protected people when the world came apart. Maya might have come here. Someone inside might know where she went next. Seraph descended into the dark with the painted words still fresh in their mind. Second chances existed in this broken world. They just had to keep searching.