We planned a short loop and met five street performers without trying: a saxophonist under a viaduct, a poet by the fountain, three dancers practicing, and a violinist tuning near a bakery. We applauded softly, bought a cookie, and carried their music onward. The walk felt curated by chance, our city revealing itself like a theater between lamplight and shadows.
A storm arrived just as we tightened our laces, so we shifted to covered arcades and market halls. Reflections multiplied the lights, umbrellas became bright flowers, and a security guard recommended a hidden passage. By the time we reached the final square, puddles held constellations. We warmed our hands on paper cups and decided weather had simply staged a better set.
We set alarms for earlier than wisdom recommends, biking to a tiny lake before the city stirred. Mist curled from the surface like breath, and water felt colder than promises. Two strangers arrived with thermoses and offered ginger tea afterward. We rode home shivering, laughing, unusually brave for a weekday, and strangely calm during the morning rush that followed.
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