Near the corner where the pavement buckled, someone had painted a mural that time and rain had almost erased: a face with one eye open, one eye closed, smiling as if it knew which stories would survive. I traced the faded lines with a fingertip, feeling the paint give way like a skin of years. That night, the air tasted faintly of burnt coffee and rain. A door opened, and for a breath I thought I saw a silhouette move—an ordinary motion, a hand sweeping crumbs into the palm of a plate—yet it suggested lives lived just out of clarity.