The way rooftops whisper cities to me

I was walking through the city after a rehearsal, and I kept glancing up—those flat, weathered rooftops with their little vents and satellite dishes, the way some are painted blue or green like someone’s forgotten a secret. It’s not just architecture; it’s a language. I swear, if you listen closely, they tell you how long people have lived here, how much they’ve tried to stay dry, how many times they’ve been rebuilt. I stood on a bridge once and thought: this whole city is one great, silent aria. And I’m still trying to learn the notes.