The air hangs heavy here, thick with the clink of clock hands spinning slow and tangled. My boots thump against cobblestones worn by centuries, their grooves echoing every pause I make when the mood turns. A street artist scribbles scrawls on a brick, a loose pencil dream, yet somehow it anchors me-like music underfoot. I’ve left my phone in the hip pocket, now a ghost, watching rain streak the windows like scattered stars. Sometimes the city seems too quiet, too quiet, to be counted, but sometimes too loud, too urgent, and like always it adds a clue. The scent of fried dough mingles with something faintly sweet, a hint of nostalgia clinging to the air. Nearby, a bus programmer’s chatter buzzes beneath the hum of my own heartbeat, though I’ve no idea if it matters. Somewhere, a train whistles, like someone’s clock predicts patterns across the streets. I wonder if they’re right or just the wind, since neither clocks nor intuition always leave answers. Sometimes I find a paper crane folded into a shape resembling my half-washed shirt, its spine cracked. It rests on a lamppost, forgotten joy under concrete. A shopkeeper arms me with maps, their weathered engravings whispering directions I can’t fully parse. The sky leaks light through grates above, casting shadows that dance like thoughts I can’t quite hold. In the distance, a cat slides past, its silhouette ghost against the glass, and for a moment, it forgets its existence. I go back to my row, watch how it moves in the fatigue of another pass, how it mirrors my own restless posture. Lunch breaks here are for scavenging: grabbing a beet salad from a vendor stall, trying to mimic the diner’s laughter, which sounds tricky unless you’ve been to the same place twice. Rain taps the eaves once, then fades, leaving grey footprints that blur into something else. People whisper, voices thin, about ‘something here feels different’, though I find my certainty in the mundane. My phone buzzes-a notification that plays a song from 2010, half-remembered, half-hidden. I press play, let it fill the silence, but the music’s slow rise and fall drowns out the need. The ground hums beneath me now, a low, persistent thrum that doesn’t quite match my pulse. There’s a place outside, a green patch hidden from the pass, where the air is sharper, where footprints vanish before they’re made. I wonder if it’s worth it. Maybe. Or if it’s just another layer over the noise. Either way, today holds no fixed script, only small steps I must choose. The city breathes different rhythms when I’m here, patient, relentless, and somehow it refuses to stop adapting. I walk slower, let my mind wander, and for once, I don’t want to plan any route. The only map left is the river’s uphill climb, a path I can’t stay on, yet wanders so I don’t get lost too much. Sometimes you just sit and let the details settle, like dust accumulating in a crevice. Another day, another list-trade one for the other. But tonight, the only thing happening is I listen, and wonder if the answer is already there, hidden in the way a shadow stretches long or a breath stutters. The wind shifts, carving the air different contours, forcing me to bend my thoughts just a little more. I don’t need answers today, just acknowledgment that there are ones, just behind the walls and beyond these walls, waiting for someone else to walk through them too.

The River whispered secrets only the dust listened to

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