The streets of Glora never slept, but some mornings felt quieter than others like the city was holding its breath. I stepped outside, hoodie pulled low, backpack slung over one shoulder. The air was crisp, carrying the smell of fried dough, gasoline, and damp concrete. A stray dog barked somewhere in the alleys, sharp and sudden.
People passed by, moving fast, heads down, lost in their own rhythm. But some stopped. Eyes flicked, just for a second. A nod here, a whisper there. Waza. The name still carried weight in the undercurrent of the city, a quiet respect and a warning. I didn't seek it anymore, but it followed, like a shadow I couldn't shake.
I passed a corner store where the old man behind the counter glanced at me, lips twitching like he wanted to say something but didn't. I nodded at him, a small gesture. That was enough.
Walking further, the alleys seemed narrower today, tighter. Every echo felt heavier, every footstep sharper. I wasn't just passing through streets I was moving through stories, memories, and warnings carved into the walls and the pavements.
A sharp laugh broke my thoughts. A kid, maybe twelve, leaned against a lamppost, flicking a coin between his fingers. "Waza!" he called out, eyes wide. "You still out here?"
I kept walking, voice low, almost drowned by the hum of the city. "I'm still here," I muttered. The kid grinned, impressed, and vanished around the corner. That's enough recognition for today, I thought. Some echoes of reputation were good to carry; others were a chain.
For a moment, I remembered her the girl whose number still sat in my phone, unsent messages piling up like dust. Her memory was sharp, a flicker of warmth in the gray streets. I typed a line, hesitated, deleted it. Some bridges were better left unburned, some better left untouched.
By the time I reached the old bridge overlooking the lower blocks, the city had grown louder. Engines roared, vendors shouted, music spilled from a corner cafe. I stood barefoot on the cold concrete, hands in my hoodie pockets, feeling the rhythm of Glora pulse under me. And beneath it all, the hum not supernatural yet, just the quiet thrum of a city alive but something in me felt tuned to it, like an old string vibrating beneath the surface.
I pulled out the notebook again, scribbling a few lines thoughts, sketches, fragments of memory. Each word a reminder that even in a city that ignored you, you could mark your presence, make yourself matter, even if only to yourself.