The Iron Skeleton

The bridge uncurls its spine, a black ribcage against the charcoal sky. The river below is a slow, cold mercury, swallowing the last few stars.

Traffic lights cycle in the void— emerald, amber, blood— blinking for ghosts and the early bread trucks grinding their gears against the silence.

Glass towers catch the first pale bruise of light. They do not wake; they merely endure, columns of frozen breath waiting for the sun to strike their flint.