As the panic spread, so did the smoke. When reality itself tears, turns out there are great gouts of acrid smoke to go along with that feeling of “holy shit what is that?” It’s visible for miles. Unless it’s foggy. Or raining. At night you can see it from even farther off as the edges of the tear burn sodium-bright through the smoke. The flashing is like a string of Satan’s own firecrackers tossed into the street. The tears burn, so we call them smoke.
What they are are rifts.
They are doors.