At home I showered, ate what I could find, and first sat, then stretched out, on the sofa. When I saw that I’d left my phone unplugged, I reached out to connect it to the charger, but my groping fingers fell short and I couldn’t be bothered to get up. I’ll just close my eyes for a few minutes, I thought, then I’ll plug it in. I shifted my head to a more comfortable position. In no time, I was gone.

It was dark when I woke, and I lurched upright in a panic. Grabbing the phone, I remembered that the battery was dead, so I pushed the charger into its socket and waited for it to turn on, then to pick up a network. There was an incredible number of missed calls. I called up the list of numbers; they were all from Alya. I stared at the screen.

I called her. Her phone was off. I scrambled into my clothes, but just before I left, I switched on the television. In mounting shock I began flipping through the channels. The violence, the blood. People being run down. People stabbing and being stabbed.

I tore downstairs like a madman, trying her number over and over again, then made straight for the building where I’d dropped her off earlier. I knocked, but no one answered.

Later, I found out that she had seen the protests on TV and, terrified, had called me. When she was unable to get through she sprinted down to the square. It was after she arrived, all alone, all alone despite the thousands around her, that it happened.

After she was gone, I kept dreaming of what happened. But different. Like, in the dream, the sky was full of fireworks and bright colors, and everyone had joined the protest, and the apartments all stood empty. The breeze was breath, was sighs and dreams, and it wasn’t your legs that carried you, but the surge of packed bodies. The joy you could see in their eyes. As if everyone could forgive everyone. And there, amid those millions, I challenged Alya: “Come, can you sing something greater than this?”