In the early hours of the Parisian morning, Atticus stood on the spires of the Notre Dame Cathedral. Down below, a great sea of glittering lights stretched ever onwards, past the edge of the glowing horizon. Occasional bursts of noise echoed upwards into the darkened sky; a siren, a car alarm, a particularly loud bird. Other than that, a general charm of sleepiness hovered over the city like a blanket, muffling everything beneath it. Despite being a bustling city in the daytime, this particular place felt strangely lonely.
Atticus' eyes rested on the sprawl below, unable to focus on anything at all. It was just a blur of colours and lights to him, without any connection or meaning in the back of his mind. Nothing in that moment seemed real. It was as if he was watching himself through a long tunnel. He couldn't feel the wind on his face nor the metal beneath his feet. It was all just so distant, numb, and uncomfortable all at the same time.