Ledger of Rainlight

At dawn, the tram wires hum like wet violin strings, and rain gathers in their long metallic throats. The streetlights, late to sleep, blink amber through mist, small planets lowering themselves into puddles.

A woman shakes a rug from a fourth-floor balcony; dust and light rise together, inseparable. Below, the bakery opens its warm, yeasted mouth, and windows cloud as if the buildings are breathing.

I walk past a shuttered cinema, marquee peeled thin, letters falling off yesterday like old bark. In the glass, my face drifts over posters of vanished summers, a double exposure: now and then, both unfinished.

By noon, the rain has turned transparent and deliberate, threading every roof to every stone. The city keeps its accounts in water and echo, and I leave my name there briefly, in footprints drying.