Damascus, Presidential Palace. Early morning.
Assad stood at the window, looking at the sunlight outside. The burning tires were extinguished, the black smoke remained, but it was thinner. Those holding photographs were still standing on the streets, at intersections, at the doors of government buildings.
They held photographs of the dead, chanting Assad's name. The voices were quieter than yesterday, because people died yesterday.
With death comes fear among the living. With fear, voices soften. Yet the people remain, the photographs remain, the eyes remain.
Those eyes stared at his window, each pair asking the same question: Why?
