Echoes of the City

Somewhere in the early hush of morning, before the city awakens fully, there is a place made of half-remembered dreams.

The streets bend like memories, faded and fluid, where buildings rise not with bricks, but with feeling worn corners, silent stories, traced in the language of time.

A lone figure moves through violet shadows, neither lost nor found, simply being  as if the city breathes her in and sighs her back out again.

She walks not toward a destination, but into a memory.
One shaped by pigment and pulse, wash and wonder.

And though the noise will return, for now all that remains is stillness, and the soft echo of her passing.