NEON DREAMS

Rain falls, a steady hush, soft and hypnotic, rhythm diffused across slick pavement and rooftops of corrugated steel. Droplets meets the ground with a delicate splash, vanishing into shallow pools that stretch across the road like patches of broken glass. The city is quiet now, as if wrapped in velvet, the air thick with mist. Neon signs buzz with a slow, ambient glow, magenta, teal, gold, cyan. Shimmering reflections cast into the rain-slicked concrete below. Light seems to hover in the air, bending through the fog, tinting everything it touches in strange, soothing hues. An amber sign flickers behind the steam rising from a street vent, barely visible through the haze, still warm, still pulsing, still alive. The streets are almost empty, lined with towering facades of weatherworn brick and steel. Glass windows, darkened and rimmed with condensation, catch fragments of neon and hold them like fragments of dream. Water drips from iron awnings and curled fire escapes, tapping onto parked cars with rhythmic precision. Sound is gentle, muted, cocooned in the heavy rain. Far down the boulevard, light pours through the windows of a noodle shop, its interior blurred by steamed glass. From within, the low golden hum spills into the street, mingling with the lavender-blue light of a nearby vending machine. Machines blink and glow with quiet sentience, humming gently as rain beads and slides down the plastic shells. The distant whir of a hovering vehicle cuts briefly through the air, soft, serene, its underlights trailing faint ribbons of violet across the clouds. Then it fades, and the world returns to rhythm, to the meditative sounds of rain on asphalt and rooftops. Steam drifts from sewer grates, curling and twisting through the air like breath in winter, catching glints of red and green from flickering signage above. Every surface glistens. Rusted doors, cracked pavement, the curved backs of forgotten benches, all awash in colour and moisture. Puddles become reflective portals, swallowing signs and street lamps, swallowing time. In one, a broken traffic signal bleeds red into blue into green in a slow, mesmerising pulse. In another, the reflection of a tower's glowing apex shimmers, distorted and perfect, like something remembered from a dream. The rain continues to fall. Not harsh, not cold, just steady. It smooths every edge, silences every sound, turns even the harshest concrete into something tender. Shadows stretch slowly across alleyways, softened by the haze. A billboard above displays a looping image of a flower blooming in reverse, bathed in ultraviolet glow, its petals folding inward endlessly. No sound. Just light. Down narrow side streets, fluorescent signs hang from old wires and rusted brackets, swaying gently with the occasional breath of wind. Paper lanterns blink on and off between the cables, their motion lazy, hypnotic, undisturbed. The scent of damp earth and faint electricity lingers in the air, warm and metallic. Somewhere, wind chimes tinkle, a high, crystalline song. Everything in this city breathes slowly. Nothing hurries. The rain continues, endless and soft. The neon pulses like a heartbeat through the mist, and the city, dark, luminous, and still, drifts in its own quiet reverie, suspended in time.