No one forgot the sound. Long after the last stone of ice had melted into cold, dirty rivulets, people could still hear that first deafening crack replaying in their minds. It became the measure of “before” and “after” for the town—a single evening that redrew what felt safe and what didn’t. Children who once slept through thunderstorms now crept into their parents’ beds at the first distant rumble. Homeowners walked their battered properties with a strange mix of grief and relief, fingers tracing dents and fractures that could have been far worse. Insurance adjusters tallied numbers; neighbors shared generators, tarps, and coffee. In the end, the town rebuilt not just shingles and glass, but a quieter, humbler understanding: that the sky can turn without warning, that ordinary days are never guaranteed, and that sometimes survival itself is the miracle.