There’s a rhythm in the quiet hum of the city, a symphony unnoticed by those who tread its busy streets. It's not about the cars or the voices—it’s in the spaces between, where silence speaks louder than sound.
The old elevator creaked every morning, an operatorless lift carrying whispers and secrets to floors unseen. It had a way of making familiar faces seem foreign, framed by the rusted gates of past and future intertwined.
Office windows cracked open just a bit to let the sound in—like music from an old radio, alive and crackling. The desks were islands of solitude amidst a sea of phones and papers, each with its own story to tell.
The hallway echoes with steps, an unspoken dance choreographed by the unseen. Shadows move, pause, and flow, a ballet of light fleeting like the evening breeze.
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