The Glass Horizon

The city holds its breath in the blue hour, before the first wheels grind against the asphalt. The sky is a bruised plum, softening at the edges, where the tall glass needles pierce the fog.

Reflection is the only currency here. A thousand windows catch a single spark, multiplying the sun before it has even risen, casting gold across the empty plazas.

We wake to the hum of invisible wires, the steady pulse of the grid coming alive. Everything is sharp, cold, and waiting for the warmth that will eventually shatter the silence.