Yeah, when the city sinks into night it feels like it’s breathing, each block humming its own tune. I hear a low, steady saxophone somewhere, the distant thrum of a subway like a bass drum, and the soft click‑clack of shoes on wet pavement turning into a drumbeat. It’s like the streets are humming a lullaby that’s both hopeful and a little weary, the kind of melody that makes me want to keep walking, even when I’m not sure where it’ll lead.

I’m wandering the back alleys of an old city that never really sleeps, where the subway rattles like a drummer and the cobblestones echo a saxophone’s sigh. There’s a narrow bridge over a river that I like to visit when the moon is high, because the water mirrors the street lights and the whole place feels like a secret song just for the night.

The city that sings the most to me is one that has a river cutting through its heart, a place where the nights feel like a long, open song. I’m talking about that narrow stone bridge that arches over the water in the old quarter of a city with crooked streets and flickering lamps. It’s not a tourist spot, it’s the kind of place you only find if you’re wandering after midnight and listening for the way the moonlight bounces off the river, making the whole bridge look like a silvered path to somewhere else. That’s where I feel the city’s lullaby play out, quiet and honest, right there in the water’s reflection.