The Breathing City

Cobblestones still wet from an unnamed rain, reflecting the pale, bruised purple of the early sky. A solitary streetlamp flickers, then gives up its ghost to the slow, inevitable creep of morning. No footsteps sound here yet.

Steam breathes from the subway grates, ghosts of yesterday's rushed commutes lingering in the chill, unmoving air. The tall glass towers stand hollowed out, waiting for the sun to strike their faces.

Somewhere deep in the concrete veins, a distant rumble speaks of awakening gears. But here, in this narrow, shadowed vein, the silence is heavy, complete, and holds its breath before the day begins.