On the day the tower fell, I was about to enter the subway tunnels to head home, to my apartment in the heart of Chicago. When I heard a bone-chilling scream. It was filled with anguish and despair. That scream pierced my heart, forever changing me. It died away, and a stiff silence fell over the street. A choked gasp escaped me, as I whirled around and saw this woman kneeling in the street, begging for God to take her instead. She collapsed on the ground, heaving sobs shaking her body. An announcement came over the loudspeakers at the nearby mall, alerting the passerbyers that over 2,000 civilians had been murdered in a series of plane crashes. It began to rattle off names of the fallen. Another voice, this one of a man, let out a gutteral roar, as he smashed a window in his fury. Tears were streaming down his face. One by one, people sank to the ground, utterely defeated. A young man, probably just out of college, was next to me. He was chanting under his breath 'not her not her not her'. And the names just kept coming. An old woman crumpled to the ground across the way, moaning 'why Ethan, he was only 2'. A blanket of grief threatened to smother us all. The listing of names had faded into a constant droning behind me. I was crushed. There was no hope left. But just when all anyone wanted to do was end it all, to leave the cruel world, a spark of hope flickered into existance. A small child, maybe 5, stumbled towards the women in the street and reached for her hand. And held it. Wrapped her arm round this fallen woman and cried. This small action spread like wildfire. I glanced up and down the street, and people were holding hands. They were crying, dry, heaving sobs. But together. And then together 3 people stood again. Then 2 more. Soon all of us were standing, and all I could think was how? How were we going to get through this? The answer immediately came to me. The same way we stood.

Together.