Quiet Streets

The lamplight flickers—a beacon of warmth amidst the urban labyrinth, consuming whispers. Cars rust, each dent and scratch painting stories of forgotten journeys. Here, the shadows breathe.

Through the cracked windows of the abandoned café, a solitary chair tipped over waits, the grime like a shroud. It remembers laughter long evaporated, the brews of yesterday swirling in its memories.

A cat crosses the alley—an echo of a once vibrant life. What happened to the people with heft and haste in their heels? Traces of their voices linger in the acid rain, disoriented in the air.

In the distance, metal groans as the city adapts; vines crawl over old facades, reclaiming territory with a serenity studded by the chaos of millions. Nature's protest against asphalt.

"Did you hear that? The silence learned to speak..."