You’ll spot the uneven droplet pattern, the faint ridge of old paint that lets light slip, the way a cracked pane echoes the rain, and even the tiny fingerprints the wind leaves behind. The building sighs when it swallows the storm, the distant siren muffles through the glass, and the scent of dust rising—subtle, almost invisible to the untrained eye. Those are the clues I notice, even if I suspect I’m over‑reading a simple scene.

It whispers that every crack was once a story someone left behind, a secret conversation between the walls and the wind. It tells me to look past the surface and ask why the floorboards squeak when I walk, or where the old light fixture was once humming. In other words, the building is just telling me its own unfinished chapters.