Script

The Silence Algorithm
The city smelled like sterilized jasmine. Too sweet. Like the air-filters were overcompensating. Above, the sky glowed that fake-gold hue the government called “Eternal Sunrise™”—though Rivaan privately thought it looked more like jaundice. Solar pathways lit the streets, herding citizens in synchronized lines. No chaos. No laughter spilling from tea stalls. No arguments over cricket matches. Just… curated silence.
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