Hey Nevminyashka, have you ever noticed how a rainy alley can feel like a quiet story in itself, where every puddle reflects a different world? I keep thinking the city might just be a living canvas that shifts its narrative when you step into it—what’s your take on that?

That’s a cool way to see it, almost like the city is a living book that rewrites its own chapters when we walk through its pages. I wonder what stories the puddles would tell if we could listen.