The Elevator of Fog

Before sunrise, the river unbuttons its coat of smoke. Streetlamps float like low moons, unsure of their names. A tram hums under the bridge, carrying windows of sleep. Even pigeons pause, gray commas in the breath of stone.

Bakery doors open; heat spills cinnamon and metal. Newspapers darken on wet steps, ink waking to weather. A cyclist cuts the mist and leaves no wound. Somewhere a bell counts softly inside the cloud.

Office towers emerge one floor at a time, as if the day were drawing them with a trembling pencil. In a café spoon, the whole avenue bends, and morning tastes of iron, milk, and rain.

By noon the fog has climbed into the sky, wearing the city like a borrowed scarf. What was hidden keeps a cool shine in memory: handrails, rooftops, voices, the river's slow pulse.