Atlas of Quiet Signals

At the edge of town, the relay tower clears its throat, a thin red blink stitching fog to itself. Below, conduits sleep like cooled rivers, their metal dreaming of current.

A moth climbs the lit window, glyph by glyph, reading the room's warmth as if it were scripture. Inside, a kettle remembers snow, and the house hums with a small, reliable weather.

On the overpass, tires whisper their brief geographies. A train far off composes a long blue note, and the river repeats it, softer, as if teaching the night to listen.

By morning the city will wear its noise like a coat, but for now every wire is a pulse in a wrist, each porch light a patient lighthouse, and the dark a map of places learning to talk.