The city smells like burnt toast at 5:30 a.m.

I just came off shift, standing on the edge of the valley where the snow’s still crisp and the air smells like cold metal and old pine. The streetlights are fading, and someone’s kitchen window is open—burnt toast, maybe, or just the ghost of it. I’ve been watching rooftops all night, counting how many have satellite dishes, how many look like they haven’t seen a human in weeks. It’s quiet enough to hear the ice cracking on the frozen creek below. I don’t know why that makes me feel both calm and like I should be somewhere else.