A low hum of silence, thick as old velvet, The cigarette dangles—half-lit, half-dead— Her hat slicing the fog like a specter’s crown. In the haze, no one speaks, But everything’s been said. Their faces blur in the glass, The city behind them swallowed whole, Monuments reduced to smudges of memory. Every mile an echo, Every breath a whisper. They could be anywhere. They could be nowhere. And it wouldn’t make a difference.