The Pavement Sings

The streetlights bleed into the puddles, neon veins stretching across the dark asphalt, a sudden bloom of artificial warmth in the cold downpour.

Tires hiss a steady, hushed rhythm, carrying phantoms away into the fog, leaving behind only the smell of wet concrete and the echo of their departure.

I stand under the awning, watching the city wash its face, a silent observer in the symphony of a thousand falling drops.