The Ghost of Copper and Glass

The bricks hold the heat of a vanished sun, a slow exhaling of clay and soot against the cool, blue hum of servers stacked in the basement's throat.

Fibers of light thread the floorboards, invisible rivers carrying the weight of a thousand distant voices, while the clock tower counts its rusted teeth.

There is a music in the overlap, where the mortar crumbles into data, and the shadow of a gargoyle reaches for a signal it cannot name.