I sit on a cracked bench, watching the light change, and let the quiet grow inside me. It’s the way a stray cat pauses on a window ledge, the scent of wet pavement after rain, the way a streetlamp flickers at dusk. Those little rhythms become verses. I just listen, and the city writes back.

The first story was a little park bench under a weeping willow. An old man with a weather‑worn guitar sat there, humming a tune that seemed to come from a memory. The breeze caught his hair, and the leaves whispered along with his song. I watched him for a few minutes, and in that quiet slice of the city I felt the weight of years folded into a single, soft chord. I tucked that moment into my notebook, a reminder that the city breathes even when people are invisible.