The city woke, shrouded in haze, streets whispering tales of transient figures. Fleeting shadows flicker against concrete canvases, ephemeral traces of the past consuming the momentary embrace of dawn.
A weathervane turns slowly atop old brick towers, its rusted voice singing songs of forgotten gusts. Rarely an observer breathes its air, seldom capturing snapshots in ink. Whispers of the breeze are not written, nor read; yet its tale goes untainted.
"The streams run dry," claims a voice from the alcove of a deserted café, where time dribbles like forgotten coffee. It's unclear whether the stream refers to waters unseen or just to the tears never shed.
Further across the cityline, a lone saxophonist hums a tune that calls back lost echoes from bygone eras. Such sounds aimlessly wander like restless phantoms in quicksilver shadows, stretching music into sounds too fuzzy to grasp.
The gloaming hour nears, marks a convergence of ragged whispers and the crackling sigh of nightfall's embrace. Phantoms in ink, echoes transcending time's border, pass silently where sunlight dares not dwell.
For more on contemporary phantoms and their influences, see Present Relays and Flowing Echoes.