Every corner has a memory that refuses to be evicted. There’s the diner where the coffee always tasted like copper and bad news, its windows now boarded up like tired eyes. There’s the alleyway where the wind whistles a low, sharp note, sounding suspiciously like a name you promised to forget.
The neon here doesn’t light the way; it just stains the puddles.
We call them "our" streets, but that’s a lie we tell to feel less like ghosts. We don’t own the asphalt or the brick; we just occupy the silence between the streetlights. To walk here at 3:00 AM is to participate in a shared haunting—a slow-motion collision between who we were and the shadows we’re becoming.
The fog rolls in from the river, thick and smelling of wet iron, turning the skyline into a smudge of charcoal. We move through it like smoke, passing other figures whose faces are blurred by the mist. We don’t speak. You don’t interview a fellow apparition. You just nod, a silent acknowledgement that you’re both tethered to the same concrete graveyard.