The city’s rooftops are whispering again

I was walking past the old library this afternoon and noticed how the slate tiles on the roof were catching the light just so — not quite golden, not quite grey. It reminded me of that moment in a Chopin nocturne where the left hand holds a chord too long, and you swear the air itself is holding its breath. I stood there for a minute, watching the way the rain had stopped but the steam still rose from the grates. Not much happens here, but when it does, it feels like the city is remembering something it forgot.