Midnight Gloss

The city exhales steam like a tired beast, its breath pooling in alleyways where no one walks anymore. Cold, wet cobblestones gleam like the backs of forgotten coins, each one holding a secret you must step lightly not to disturb. Streetlamps blink like they’re remembering how to dream— orange halos shivering on the slick asphalt, casting shadows with no one to belong to. Shop windows sleep behind grimy glass and rolled-down gates, whispering to each other in the hush of the sodium dark. Rain slicks the world into a mirror and I walk through it— a ripple in the ghost of a market square, where footsteps echo as if they're unsure whether they’re mine or someone else's long gone. Neon signs flicker with old jazz— an inaudible tune, all hush and blue and the smell of wet iron lingering like a lover's forgotten scarf. I am alone, but the night is not empty. It is full of watching things— brick mouths and sewer grates, broken clocks stuck at almost midnight, windows that sigh when no one’s listening. The city speaks its truest voice only when no one asks.