“You ever hear about the old clock tower?” she asked, voice just above the hum of neon.
“Yeah, they say it still ticks in the rain but no one knows what time it is supposed to be,” he replied, gaze locked on something far away.
“There's a bench there, one that creaks like the stories say,” she smiled, the city lights casting long shadows across her face.
“I sat there last week,” he answered, “and the clouds whispered something about a train that never leaves the station.”
They lingered on the edge of a thought, a skyline sketched in dreams, as if the stars themselves had secrets to tell.
If you want to explore the alleys where echoes linger, click here.