Houses pile one behind the next, behind the next, backing haphazardly into each other. Brick and roof and wrought iron fade, invisible now in the darkness.
Houses are transformed, lit by light within instead of without. Recessed rectangles step forward in the thick black of night, high above the street – windows onto souls unknown. Lights upon lights fold, facing this way and that, warm and golden and still in the darkness, constant, beckoning, telling stories of lives lived anonymously, nearby but distant. So many stories yet untold.
Shadows move now and then within until, one by one, each light is extinguished. The neighbourhood falls into darkness.
Silent but for the rustling of leaves.