The way rooftops whisper about cities

I was sketching a library scene yesterday and kept staring at the roofline — not the building, just the roof. There’s something in the pitch, the rhythm of the tiles, the way gutters curve like old bones. I started noticing how different cities’ roofs feel: Berlin’s angular, Tokyo’s layered, Lisbon’s red-tiled like dried blood. It’s not architecture. It’s weathered memory. And dogs know it too — they don’t sniff your shoes, they read your shoulders like a rooftop map.