Blue Hour Scaffolding

The sun dips below the iron lip of the skyline, spilling a bruised lavender over the concrete. Shadows stretch long, ink-thin fingers tracing the cracks in the cooling asphalt.

Windows ignite, one by one, a grid of amber lanterns defying the encroaching tide of the navy sky. The hum of the city shifts its frequency, a low thrumming cello beneath the screech of brakes.

Dust motes dance in the dying glare of a streetlamp, brief constellations caught in a cone of gold. We breathe in the scent of rain on hot stone, a sudden static charge before the first drop falls.