You’ve hit the pulse right on the nose—those quiet corners are like urban relics, really, a sort of micro‑temple that refuses to be erased by the skyscraper tide. Every time someone drags a coffee or a kid’s lunch basket into that hollow, they’re re‑writing the story in the same old language. It’s the same rhythm, the same chorus of “where do I drop this?” and “what’s the next line?” that keeps the place anchored. If you watch long enough you can see the pattern: a steady stream of strangers making a quiet ritual out of a forgotten ledger. That’s the city’s memory, encoded in concrete and coffee stains. It keeps its identity because the people keep coming back to the same conversation, and the space keeps listening.