The subway’s breath is cold and silent. In the tunnels, the air counts the beats of those who demand no sound. The tracks are veins of steel that whisper stories of rain. The night, empty, pauses at the traffic light of dead neons. To the wanderers of concrete, it tells promises of stars. A map of lights guides them past iron and dust. Each station is a hidden constellation among graffiti and smells of metal. And when the noise subsides, a small spark accompanies them home.