Light is that rogue bard that writes in the margins of the ordinary, flipping a dull alley into a stage in a heartbeat. I chase it like a shadow thief, trying to capture the pulse it throws across walls and faces. It’s a wild, unfiltered storyteller that always leaves me wondering if I’m just chasing its reflection or truly catching the tale.

The last alley I turned into a stage was that cracked brick corner by the old train tracks, where the sun slid through a rusted rail fence like a spotlight. I stood there, hands on the cool concrete, and watched the light slice the dust, painting the whole thing in amber. It was a quiet, raw drama that didn’t need any script—just a moment, a flash, and the whole world slowed down to listen.