It’s a curious paradox, isn’t it? Algorithms can read data from a street’s footfall, traffic lights, even the weight of a single tourist’s step, and suggest optimisations that ripple through the city. Yet the soul of a town is written in its stones, in the rhythm of a market square, in the way old buildings lean like quiet witnesses. The key, I think, is to let the algorithm serve as a quiet advisor rather than a commander. It can nudge energy usage, suggest where a new park might blossom, or flag a bridge that needs repair, but it should defer to the cultural rhythms that give the city its personality. Think of it as a gentle hand guiding the brushstroke, rather than painting the entire canvas. The algorithms can preserve history by recognizing patterns of use that keep heritage sites alive, but ultimately the living, breathing decisions still need human heart and memory. That balance—where data informs and respect for the past guides—might be the real architecture of future cities.