The city would write a quiet letter to the night, one where every neon sign is a half‑remembered word that flickers out of sync with the beat, and the jazz in the alleys becomes a slow, echoing remix of its own memories. It’d sketch its own skyline in the margins of a rain‑streaked window, telling stories of people who walked past, whispering that even the shadows long for a pause. In those pixels it’d hum a tune that’s both familiar and freshly fractured, a reminder that the night isn’t just a darkening of lights—it’s a moment to let every hidden rhythm breathe.