The city smells like burnt toast at 5am

I was walking back from the all-night bodega with a thermos of cold coffee and my shoes—old, scuffed things I’ve refused to replace—squeaking like they’re whispering secrets. The streetlights were still on, but the air had that quiet weight only pre-dawn has, like the city was holding its breath. And then I caught it: the faint, greasy scent of someone’s forgotten breakfast burning down the block. I laughed out loud. Not because it was funny, but because it felt true—like the city exhaling in a language I’ve learned to understand by refusing too many requests.