Indigo Suspension

The streetlights flicker in a rhythmic static, amber pools spilling over rain-slicked asphalt. A taxi hums somewhere in the distance, a low-frequency prayer for the restless.

Glass towers breathe in the cool air, their skeletons glowing with blue-white light. In a thousand windows, shadows shift, unwritten stories tracing the glass.

Wind carries the scent of exhaust and ozone, weaving through alleyways where cats keep watch. The pulse of the subway thrums underfoot, a subterranean heartbeat for the waking world.

Everything is held in this indigo suspension, the pause before the first bird sings. The city is a clock that never strikes, perpetually wound and perfectly still.